


The Grand Order of Inertial Monks

by Monetarily Dizzy (SandOfTheMountain)



Series: Here and Then [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: (kinda? tagging for safety), Demons, Disabled Character, Fables - Freeform, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Fantasy, Fictional Country, Fire, Forced Tattooing, Gen, Hellions, Home Invasion, I don't know how to tag this, Intrigue, Magic, Magic Law, Monarchy, Monks, Order and Chaos, Original Character(s), Original work - Freeform, Politics, Polynesian Inspired Nation, Public Demonstrations, Questionable Orders, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Saints, Torture, Unrequited Love, War, convoluted plot, divine beings, war games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2018-11-22 18:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandOfTheMountain/pseuds/Monetarily%20Dizzy
Summary: The Grand Order of Inertial Monks was established to relish and protect the natural magics of the world; they act on matters that concern the great planes of existence and worry about little else. Composed of fourteen monks and one Arch Sophisticate, the Order serves the world from their fortress placed out of time. Ophelia and Serine are the Monks in Blue, and a routine mission leads them out of their bubble to a greater world than either of them imagined.





	1. Serine Writes a Letter

     In his studio, Serine was very stressed. There was no crisis, no danger requiring his attention. Serine was composing a letter. While the monk had faced down literal demons and actually gone to Hell, Serine had never before felt the same blend of emotions as he did right now. Serine could easily name the emotions churning in his gut; fear and anxiety were the frontrunners. He glanced down at his paper, re-reading everything he had penned before.

     “Ophelia,” it read, “It would take a lifetime to establish what you mean to me. You are my coworker, my best friend, my confidant, my other half. I would be dead ten times over without you (and I’d like to mention you’d be dead without me). After these years of working together, protecting Eden and Jarvin Province across time, I’ve come to a conclusion. I-” That was where the letter stopped. 

     How do you tell someone you love them? It’s always a stressful confession, no matter to whom. But Ophelia was special. Serine and Ophelia were Inertial Monks, dedicated to the protection of the Crystal City of Eden across all of time, guarding the intersection of the mortal and spirit worlds. Serine’s harmony with Ophelia was the single most important thing in his life, if only because they couldn’t effectively function as a pair without being in perfect sync.

     Serine had been in love with Ophelia for a while. He had realized it slowly, his love wasn’t at all abrupt. One day he appreciated her smile in a new way. Then it was her bravado. The wild look in her eyes before she struck a major blow. Over time Serine found there wasn’t a single thing Ophelia did in which he did not delight. Then he applied the word “love” to their relationship, and things grew scary. There were no rules against the monks falling in love, but to Serine’s knowledge it had never happened. Love just wasn’t a factor among the Inertial Monks. But here he was, loving Ophelia. Serine looked back over his letter, his mouth twisting at the words. All the letters felt wrong on paper. Serine marked through several lines, then crumpled the letter entirely. It would be better to start over at this point. There was a tap on the door, then there she was. 

     “Serine, I don’t blame you for skipping the meeting. I’m horribly offended that you didn’t let me play hooky with you.” Ophelia flopped on the loveseat behind him, arranging her robes as she flopped. “It was just so dreadfully boring, listening to the Arch Sophisticate talk about “exorcism this” and “hellion that” for hours. What were you doing cooped up in here anyways?”

     Serine forced his face into passivity as he turned in his chair. “Writing a letter to the alchemist down on Tully Street. The fool has mixed up my medicine again.” It was a good lie, Serine supposed. The alchemist was old, and the man was known to mix his herbs occasionally.

     “How is your vision then?”

     Serine shrugged. “I’m not blind, so the old coot’s doing something right. I need my glasses to read though,” he muttered, tapping the frames.

     Ophelia’s face broke into a smile. “Well take another dose or get out the hunky mission frames, cause we’ve got an assignment! And it’s simply divine Serine, we’re going to Florence!” Ophelia sung the last word, and Serine felt his heart sing with it.

     “Florence? What could possibly be there for us?”

     “Monster summoning, apparently. I didn’t pay attention to the details.” That was a lie, and they both knew it. Ophelia never missed a detail, and she never forgot them either.

     Serine frowned, fingers twiddling with a his earlobe. “A human summoning a monster shouldn’t be our jurisdiction. Why are they dispatching us to it? Aren’t we… above this? Is this not beneath us?”

     Ophelia heaved a dramatic sigh, mirth dancing in her eyes. “Serine darling, welcome to my world.  Everything is beneath me.” With a laugh she stood, smoothing her tan robes. “Time to suit up. I’ll meet you on the balcony.” With a wink she was gone as soon as she came. 

     Serine stood, feeling his knees pop as he did. A trip to Florence wouldn’t be so bad, he supposed. He fingered the hourglass pendant at his neck, then slipped it under his tan robes. Serine walked to and opened his wardrobe, inspecting his blue robes. He allowed himself to feel the familiar thrum of the enchantments echo off the fabric and belt. Serine undressed quickly, sliding on a fresh set of tan robes. He removed the blue robes from the wardrobe, slipping his arms into the long sleeves. His body adjusted to the weight of the robe instantly; Serine was made for these robes. The golden shoulder pauldrons attached as seamlessly as they always did, and Serine tightly cinched his belt. He ensured his sleeves covered his hands before striding out the door. Serine quickly met Ophelia on the balcony, where she was deep in discussion with one of the monks in red.

     Ophelia waved Serine over as soon as she saw him. “Serine, come say goodbye to Joan! She’s about to head off for America for six months to check on some reservoirs in Alaska.”

     “Fun.” Serine’s voice was much more monotone than he had intended. Talking to people wasn’t his strong suit.

     “Don’t be a dick,” Ophelia chastised. “He means well,” she said to Joan, “but he resents travelling with a passion. Let me know when you get back, we’ll have to have dinner.” The two monks hugged, and Joan departed. “You could be kinder,” Ophelia remarked.

     “I could be a lot of things,” Serine conceded. It wasn’t a real apology. Ophelia narrowed her eyes.“Fine, I’m sorry!”

     “I’m not the one to whom you should apologize.” The two monks were strolling to the gateway out of the city, basking in the sunset.

     “Yeah.” Serine looked around, thinking. “Why are we being sent to Florence? Humans and monsters should be Coventium stuff, not Inertial business.”

     “We go where the Arch Sophisticate tells us to go.” Ophelia didn’t have an answer then, Serine realized. The two monks stood under the archway that served as the gate to the outside world. The sunset illuminated the crystal tree at one end of the promenade and cast deep shadows on the statue that sat on the other. ‘A quick mission, nothing more. And to Florence no less! It’ll be charming Serine, don’t you worry.” The two stepped through the archway and into the world. 


	2. Florence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia and Serine are in Florence. Ophelia is sad, and Serine experiences baseball.

     Florence is an old city. Romans lived in it, Charlemagne conquered it, the plague devastated it. The Renaissance found a home in Florence. Art and culture flourished in Florence, and Florence thrummed with the sheer history in its possession. The city was alive with the love and hate and birth and death singing through the air.

 

     Serine didn’t care one bit about Florence’s long history. It was raining, and his robes clung uncomfortably to his body. His hood was up, but that didn’t stop the rain from splashing into his eyes or the cold from seeping into his bones.

     Serine turned to Ophelia. “Have you found whatever it is we’re looking for?”

     The other monk turned to face him, lowering her quizzing glass from her face. “There’s a lot of magic in a city like this. Witches and familiars summoning small stuff, minor teleportation. I’m finding a needle in a haystack.” She put the glass back to her eye, observing the places magi had pulled energy. “Oh, here’s something. It’s the nasty sticky bruise-y magic.”

     Serine pulled out his glass, looking at the traces of dark magic. “Ugh. Yeah. Let’s go get the guy and get out of here.” He dropped the glass into his pocket, striding off towards the source of the magic.

     Ophelia walked after him, obviously considering a question. In typical Ophelia fashion, she didn’t mull over it very long. “Serine, do you think we could perhaps spare a day after we apprehend the magi to look around a bit? We spend so little time here in the mortal world.”

     “I…” Serine hated the mortal planes. But he wasn’t about to say no to Ophelia. “I don’t control where you go, Ophelia. You can stay here for a while.”

     “I know that,” Ophelia scoffed. “I just wanted you to stay here a while with me. Come on.” She broke into a jog, Serine following behind her. One of the two would occasionally lift their glass to their eye to confirm they were on the right track, but for the most part the two raced in silence along the old streets.

     Ophelia never got tired of the concealment in the blue robes, the way people just didn’t notice the two blue figures hurtling down the street. Honestly, Ophelia never got tired of the job: the magic, the experiences, the people met along the way. Even if she could have had a choice all those years ago, she would always have chosen this. Especially Serine. Serine was… imperfect, sure. In all honesty, he was probably the weakest monk in the Order. Yet Ophelia knew, deep under that caustic shell, Serine had a heart of gold. Ophelia snorted softly to herself, recognizing how ridiculous that sounded. It was almost as if he was a story character. The only way to ramp the cliche melodrama up would be to make her confess her undying love for him. The thought certainly was funny though, and she couldn’t quite contain the giggles bubbling up.

     Serine couldn’t figure out why Ophelia suddenly started laughing, but he certainly loved to hear it. Finally, the monks slowed in their jog across the city. The two had come to an apartment building on the western side of the city. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect to find a corrupted summoner, in fact, it was rather idyllic. Someone, a child probably, had painted little flowers along the foundation. Similar flowers were growing in a window box on the third floor.

     “It’s so… nice.” Serine’s voice was soft.

     “Yeah, I was thinking that just a moment ago. Not at all foreboding.” Ophelia chewed her lip, glancing at the family exiting the building. “Does it ever make you sad?”

     Serine raised an eyebrow. “Apartment graffiti?”

     “No, you dolt. That evil exists, and that it lives in such marvelous places. It makes me sad that there are all these perfectly lovely people in this perfectly lovely building, yet there’s one person here summoning monsters from a plane beyond.”

     “Well, I suppose even wicked people appreciate nice housing.”

     “It’s tough sometimes, to remember that even wicked people are people.” Ophelia took a deep breath and held it. Serine watched quietly- Ophelia always did this. It helped calm her, and it made the next part easier. The two monks in blue opened the door.

     Ophelia could feel the inherent wrongness of the magic as soon as she entered the building. The magic clung to the back of her throat and made her eyes water, and her belt was ever so slightly buzzing. Ophelia knew Serine’s teeth were on edge; everyone reacted to unnatural magic differently. She quietly moved up the stairs, halting in front of the door that made her feel physically nauseous. To her dismay, it looked like every other door every other regular person owned. In the back of her mind, Ophelia miserably recognized this apartment as the one having the flower box from outside. A quick look through her spell glass confirmed that this was in fact the source of the magic. Serine was better at lock runes than she, so Ophelia sidestepped and allowed her partner to put his chalk to the door. With a slight click the door swung open. Ophelia entered the room softly, taking in the little living room. The apartment seemed comfortable, if not a little cramped, and was exactly the right amount of messy for it to be happily lived in. In Ophelia’s opinion, a perfectly clean and pristine living space was a tip-off someone was trying to either impress someone or hide something. A woman strolled out of the bedroom, fingers moving across her phone’s keyboard. Serine raised his hand, readying his spell, but Ophelia quickly pushed his arm away. She peered through her quizzing glass, revolted by how the sticky bruise-y magic floated around the apartment. Yet none of it was from the woman. She wasn’t Ophelia’s concern. With a twist of her fingers a sigil flared in the air.

     “Sleep.” Ophelia commanded. The woman slumped to the ground. Ophelia’s glance through the glass told her the door to the right had the most concentrated aura of dark magic. She stalked towards the door, nodding to Serine. Serine nodded back, beginning to craft a sigil for a plane shift. Serine was not particularly fast at creating the sigil, but Ophelia was in no real hurry. When Serine finally inclined her head, Ophelia took another deep breath. Then she opened the door and strode through.

     The moment the monks went through the door something started whistling. Startled, the plane shift fizzled out of Serine’s hand. At the same time, Ophelia felt her heart drop to the floor. Still in that same instant, a child’s eyes met the monks’. The child rose from an almost completed rune, and on second glance Ophelia could see she was older than Ophelia had originally assessed.

     “Show yourself, I know you’re there.” The teen spoke in Italian, but the belt easily translated for its wearer. “The rune above the door tells me every time someone crosses the threshold.” The teen glanced from above the door back to the rune at her feet, and bent over to add another chalk mark. The memory spell flared hot in Serine’s still concealed hand, but he stood still, waiting for Ophelia’s command.

     Serine dropped his hood. “Ophelia, give the order.” The girl started and yelped at the sudden appearance, frantically adding more lines to the rapidly finishing rune. The girl’s shout shocked Ophelia out of her stupor, and she too dropped her hood. The girl finished the drawing before Ophelia could say anything else, and before either monk could act the teen’s finger had been pricked and blood had been added.

     A gust of wind pushed the window open. The lights flickered. In the flickering light, the teen’s face looked both scared and brave and old beyond her years. “Hellion, I raise you.”

The hellion emerged in a cloud of smoke and embers. It was awful to look at, with mottled grey and purple skin wrapped around a ghoulish frame. A single horn protruded from the side of its face, and it looked at the humans with cloudy green eyes. A single swipe of its massive hands sent Serine through the window. The girl screamed, and Ophelia quickly snatched her into her arms and darted under the hellion’s arms and into the living room. Ophelia could hear the crunch of the window sill as the hellion chased after Serine, the more entertaining prey. Ophelia pressed a memory spell into the teen’s head, technically completing the mission. Ophelia didn’t bother watching the girl’s eyes unfocus as all knowledge and connection to magic was purged from her memory. The Monk in Blue ran through the door, warding it behind her. Constructing a repair sigil as she dove through the smashed wall, Ophelia threw the spell behind her as she rushed towards her partner. Serine was no good at combat. Ophelia needed to catch up to her fellow monk, and fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picking up! Also, I feel dead and sleepy, but I wanted to get this out tonight. So please tell me if I made any errors. At one point I wanted a schedule, but honestly you'll get these when I'm happy with them. I'm happy with this, just not positive it's flawless. Anyways. Come talk to me on tumblr, I'm at monetarilydizzy. I love to talk!


	3. Rooftops

Serine needed Ophelia to catch up with him, and fast. Combat wasn’t Serine’s strongest skill, and the hellion seemed to be impressively immune to his attacks. Sand poured out of the pendant at his neck as Serine ran, boots pounding a frantic pace. The monk’s hands worked as fast as they could, bending the sand around him and blasting it at the hellion. The monster moved surprisingly fast for a three legged abomination with half a face. There were only so many ways Serine could attack the hellion, and all he seemed to be doing was enraging it more. If the hellion were human it would have gone into shock from Serine’s sand ripping the skin off its bones. Tragically, the hellion was not human, and it just kept moving. Serine looked at the setting sun, then up at the storm clouds still milling above. It had stopped raining, but Serine knew the moment the sky opened up again his job would get a lot harder. Fighting required footwork, and everyone knew rain was the enemy of traction. Plus, wet sand was unusable sand. Not for the first time, Serine wished he had something more practical than psammokinesis. Usually when griping about his abilities, Serine wished he were a gravity bender like Ophelia. At this point he would have settled for just refined energy manipulation. But grumbling would solve nothing, and it wasn’t even comforting him. So he continued to run, slapping tendrils of sand at the hellion with the force of a sandblaster.

 

Ophelia was getting desperate, chasing after her partner with only her belt to guide her. The streets below her were deserted, probably in anticipation of the brewing storm. The rooftops were in a similar state, but Ophelia couldn’t catch sight of Serine anywhere. Yet still she ran, the humming of her belt providing her a gut feeling that she was going the right way. Ophelia felt panic bubble in her throat for a second, only to push it back down. Panicking and worrying about Serine won’t get her any closer to him, rather, panicking would just slow her down and potentially get him killed. She created gravity anchors as she ran, slingshotting herself across the sky. “Beats running,” she murmured to herself. Ophelia always talked to herself when she was stressed. She needed noise to function. Noise was an insulator. Noise gave her space to think, to work, to not freak out as everything came crashing-

Thunder boomed in the skies above. Ophelia may have emitted a tiny squeak. Only a little one though, as she was a professional. Definitely not afraid of thunder. Ophelia threw herself high with another gravity anchor, frantically gazing across the rooftops for Serine. Ophelia had placed all her bets on her belt’s ability to guide her to Serine. And by the angels, just as she began to lose faith, she saw him. Shock hit her like a train- what did Serine think he was doing? Then thunder pealed again, and the first wall of rain fell.

 

Serine heard the first peal of thunder and he immediately thought of Ophelia. “She hates thunder,” was his first thought, followed quickly by “I hope she’s alright.” Then he had to throw himself to the right to avoid being crushed by the hellion’s club-like arm. The rain was coming down in waves now, and just as he had feared, his sand was becoming harder to manipulate. He was losing traction too; it felt as if his feet were gliding across the roof. The hellion was closing in, and the monk prepared to make his stand. Serine couldn’t keep running, or Ophelia would never be able to find him. In this rain, Serine wasn’t actually sure he could leap from rooftop to rooftop safely at all. The rain meant no runes, and his sand had already proved useless. Serine had always been bad at sigils, and he had never gotten the hang of refining raw magic into anything useful or sophisticated. So he was down to his wits and raw energy. Luckily, he was very clever. He pretended to trip, allowing the hellion to come closer, closer, closer still. Then he struck. Raw energy hit the hellion like an uppercut as Serine took advantage of the rain, sliding behind the monster. With a jump Serine had a hand on the horn protruding from the side of the monster’s face, and he quickly hooked a leg around the hellion’s approximation of a hip. Serine focused, taking a moment to feel the hum of the world around him as he gathered energy. Then he channeled it all into the monster’s head.

The hellion screamed as its head crumpled, not unlike one of the cans Serine noticed people liked to drink soda from. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the hellion was not killed. If anything, it was angrier at the blue pest on its back. The hellion gave a particularly violent shake, and Serine was quickly reacquainted with the rooftop. Serine’s mouth was coppery, and he vaguely recognized the taste of blood. Had he bit his cheek? His tongue? Everything was kind of fuzzy in his mind. Then there was an impact, and Serine saw stars. Serine’s eyes focused and widened in panic as he realized the stars were real, and he was falling. Falling, and falling quickly. The moon was gorgeous tonight though. Serine supposed if this moon was the last thing he ever saw, then it wouldn’t be too bad. Serine closed his eyes as his body stopped with a jerk.

Ophelia saw Serine fall. She saw it and felt it- felt her heart drop and her pulse quicken. She saw it and  _ acted _ . Ophelia extended her hand, runes expanding along her arm as she did what she does best. A point in the air shimmered, almost twisted, and Serine was caught in the newly formed gravity. She hit the rooftop at a roll, skidding past the hellion. Ophelia was by no means a good fighter; Serine was much better on the offensive with his sand. But this needed to end now. She stood, rolling her wrists. Her familiar gravity runes flared to life under her long sleeves, obscured from view. The hellion stopped and seemed to scent the air before turning to Ophelia.

“You hurt my friend,” Ophelia said, her tone cold. “You’re a mindless beast, ripped from your home and imbued with energy to do nothing but hurt and self-satisfy. And you hurt my friend. You hurt Serine, my partner, my only. Real. Friend.” Under her sleeves runes flashed, two gravity anchors flaring to life on each side of the hellion, pinning it in place. “Now I get to hurt you.” With a twist of her hands Ophelia ramped up the pull of the anchors. Tiles flew off the roof towards the two points, the rain bent in on itself as it fell into the anchor’s pull. Ophelia herself felt a corner of her robes catch, and she had to readjust her stance to keep her balance. The hellion? The hellion was utterly ripped to shreds. There was no noise, just a small shimmer as the hellion began to fade out of the mortal plane. Overhead thunder pealed again. The rain kept coming, but Ophelia made no move to raise her hood. She dissipated the gravity anchors, turning to where Serine was held in the air.

Serine awoke to the sight of Ophelia standing on the rooftop above him, arms outstretched and visibly straining. He then became aware of the fact he was moving. His stomach would pull, as if he were falling, then he would float upwards just a little. Serine quickly recognized how he was moving- he and Ophelia jokingly called this “the elevator.” Ophelia was slowly activating a series of closely placed gravity anchors, moving him up without straining his body or giving him whiplash. Unfortunately, it took a lot of energy for Ophelia, already exhausted from catching up with him and, presumably, defeating the hellion.

“Ophelia! I’m back, I’m awake,” Serine called. “Just pull me over to that little fire escape there, I’ll climb up.” Serine wasn’t sure if she had heard him for a moment, then he felt his stomach jerk sideways. In a moment he was on the landing. Serine swayed a moment, knuckles going white as he supported himself on the ladder. Then he began to climb. He was only two flights down, and he quickly made his way back to the roof.

“Hey,” Ophelia panted. She had sat down, supporting herself with her elbows. “You’re not dead.”

“Yeah.” Serine dropped down beside her. “You defeated the hellion?” It was a statement more than a question, given they were not in danger of being gored by a facial horn.

“Yes.” Ophelia left it at that.

“Good.”

“Yeah.” The two sat in companionable silence, breathing heavily.

“Can we go home now?”

Ophelia laughed. “You don’t want to stay and be charmed by this gorgeous city?”

“I almost died in this gorgeous city. Danger doesn’t exist in Eden.”

“Hm. Well, I can’t really argue with that. I suppose we can go.” Ophelia gingerly stood, offering a hand to Serine. He took it, ignoring his thrill from the look she gave him. The two began to hobble down the fire escape, and had made it all of two feet before hearing glass shatter.

Serine looked at Ophelia, who was whipping her head around in an effort to find the source of the noise. “It’s not our concern. It’s probably some teen who thinks breaking things is a good way to make some point.”

“What it it’s not though,” Ophelia murmured. She had a good idea of which direction the noise had come from, and began to walk in that direction. “If something bad is happening, the worst thing we can do is assume it’s someone else’s problem and offer no help. Especially when we are capable of helping.”

“We’re not though,” Serine protested. “You’re exhausted, and I’m half dead!”

“Being exhausted doesn’t change who I am, Serine. I’m still Ophelia; I go running towards danger in an effort to help.” With a wave she began to jog, running towards wherever she could do good.

“I know,” Serine said to himself. “It’s one of the reasons I love you.”


	4. Holy Grounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serine and Ophelia help ruin a church.

The rain had started up again after a brief, glorious pause. Serine didn’t have the energy to complain about the rain though, so he quietly put up his hood and followed Ophelia through the night. He quickly caught up to her, and the two stood outside of an old church in silence.

“Here’s what made the noise,” Ophelia said, nudging a bible with her foot. Shards of stained glass littered the street, and they both could easily spot the hole through which the book had come. Serine leafed through the now-soggy pages to ensure there was nothing important in them before tossing it back down and looking to Ophelia.

“What do we do?”

“We go in,” Ophelia said. “Are you up for it?”

“I guess I will be.”

Ophelia treated him to a smile. “Good answer.” Then she was opening up the door and slipping inside. As soon as Serine stepped inside he could feel the magic vibrating in the building. The moon softly illuminated the stained glass lining the walls, and the pews stood in silent rows up the nave. Ophelia stood silently in the foyer, a hand stopping Serine from moving any closer.

Serine stopped, feeling out the strange vibration of the church. “What’s that?” Ophelia raised an eyebrow. “That strange feeling.”

“Oh. I think we’re on a ley line.”

Serine was quiet for a minute. “Do you really think they’re cracks?”

“No,” Ophelia responded, “I think they’re veins. Now be quiet and look up there.” 

Serine followed Ophelia’s line of sight, squaring his shoulders as he took in the front of the church. In front of the pews was, as one would expect, the altar. Kneeling before the altar was a man. He was reading from a dark book lying in front of him, and the monks could see his hands placing objects around him.

“Ophelia, what do we do,” Serine whispered.

“What’s he doing?” Ophelia’s voice was equally as low. “Stay low, get closer.” Keeping behind the pews, the two monks in blue began to inch their way to the front of the church. If she was being honest with herself, Ophelia really didn’t want to be here. Despite her big speech about duty, she had wanted some punk kid to be here so she could tell them off and then go home. But fate was a bitch, and Ophelia was stuck crawling on an uncomfortable floor trying to hear what some whack-job was saying. As the two got closer, they could see the objects around him on the floor. He held a rock in one hand, a vial of light in another. A small vial of water sat to his right, and Ophelia didn’t need to see the other points of the star to know nature and wind would be represented too. The encircled star on the back of his neck became more and more obvious the closer the two monks got to the man. Ophelia nearly jumped out of her skin when the man began to shout.

“I call you to your place in-between, from your home of neither here nor there! I call you to this plane, this point, to me! I channel the foundations of life as I breathe across voids to you, Lord-of Mist, to your power, your insight!”

Serine looked to Ophelia with wide eyes. The witch was trying to contact a Lord-of-Mist. Serine wanted to scream as Ophelia stood. Determination and righteous fury strengthened her every action. Ophelia raised her sleeved hand, focusing her magic. With a familiar shimmer gravity flared to life above the witch, pulling him into the air and disrupting his summoning. The man let out a feral growl as he rose into the gravity, sigils flashing around him as he broke Ophelia’s anchor.

Ophelia ripped off her hood, making eye contact with the witch. “You have violated the Planes Clause of the Seventh Day Accords. As an Inertial Monk, defender of Order and angelically mandated, we are to apprehend you. Will you cease hostilities and allow yourself to be peacefully apprehended?” Serine rose and removed his hood, sand already weaving between his fingertips. The witch growled again, batons materializing in his hands. “So be it,” Ophelia sighed. With a vicious jerk she sliced her hand forward, a blade of raw magic flying at the witch. He easily caught it with his batons, the energy harmlessly flying around him. Sigils flashed in the air around him as lightning raced across the floor at the monks. Serine hand blurred, sand cutting cancellation runes into the floor around the witch. Serine twisted and clenched the fist, grinning as the sand swarmed around the man. The man let out a scream- a long, animalistic howl of pain. Blue fire exploded from his form and lingered in the air, sucking the oxygen from the room. Serine and Ophelia fell to the ground, their already exhausted bodies barely keeping up the fight. The witch took a flying leap off the altar, sailing over their heads before running out of the church.

“Go- after,” Ophelia choked out. She raised a trembling hand, creating an anchor to slingshot the choking monks after the witch. The familiar pull of gravity grabbed their stomachs, and the two felt themselves being dragged towards the exit. Serine had to blast several errant pews out of the gravity, but the monks quickly found themselves gulping down the cool air. It was still raining.

“He’s an animal,” Serine said.

“Yeah. But we’ve got to stop him.”

“I didn’t say we shouldn’t. Do you know which way he went?”

“This way. We need to get back on the roofs.” Ophelia pushed herself onto her feet, helping Serine up. “Come on.” The two began to stumble down the street, drawing on the strength of their belts to just keep moving. Serine reached into his robe and removed a flask, downing half and passing the rest to Ophelia.

“Drink it, it’ll get you through the rest of this.” Gratitude shone in Ophelia’s eyes as she downed the rest of the liquid. Within minutes they felt the effects, joints moving easier and magic coming quicker.

“Is there any easy way to identify the witch?”

“If there is, I don’t know it. We can try to force a naming, but that may backfire on us.”

“Aren’t some sigils like fingerprints? Can’t you use that perfect memory of yours to memorize whatever his personal sigil looks like?”

Ophelia sighed. “Yeah, but only if it’s a spell unique to him. And we don’t have any way of knowing what may or may not be unique. The Order hasn’t exactly faced witches in a while, I don’t even think we maintain spell records any more.”

“Damn. Here’s a fire escape.” Serine paused, waiting for his partner.

Ophelia was standing still, face scrunched up in thought. “Wait. Wait. I have a thought but I just need a moment to get it together.” Serine carefully watched Ophelia, ready to respond to whatever she said next. “Think. Think, Ophelia! What did I see? What, what, what? It was at the church. Church, in the church, he was summoning… summoning. How, how, how, how, oh. OH! Serine, he left the summoning book in the church! We should get it!”

If he was being completely honest, Serine didn’t quite get Ophelia’s point. “Why?”

“Because,” Ophelia said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “it might lead us back to the witch?”

“Ophelia.” Serine took a moment, carefully minding his tone. “Do you think he wrote his name in the book? What are we going to do, mail the book back to the witches and say ‘who checked this out of the library last’ and hope they keep records?”

“If you had books with knowledge to contact a Lord-of-Mist, wouldn’t you keep careful track of it? Even if there isn’t a direct link, what’s the harm in taking it?” Ophelia smiled brightly as Serine failed to have a comeback. “Let’s go see what’s in the book.” The two monks sloshed through the rapidly growing puddles back through the threshold of the church, back up to the altar, and up to the book.

The tome was a dingy little thing, much less impressive now that it was out of the hands of the witch. The corners were well worn and turned into the pages, and the pages themself were lightly tattered on the edges and dotted with mold on top. The title on the cover had long been scratched out, and the binding sagged slightly in Ophelia’s hands. The writing was penned by hand, faded in some sections and completely missing pages in others. The lettering was cramped but precise, and the letters were arranged in a fashion that made absolutely no sense at all.

“Ooh, Serine, look at this!” Ophelia pointed excitedly to a rune on a page. “There isn’t a safety break here at all! This book must be hundreds of years old!”

“And very dangerous,” Serine muttered.

“Yes, but we knew that from the beginning now didn’t we? Hush now. This is so interesting! We need to get this back to Eden as soon as possible.”

Serine clicked his tongue. “Does it tell us anything about the witch’s identity?”

“Not that I can tell. But the whole thing seems to be written in code, so we can’t really know what knowledge is here. We just have to get it-” the book fell out of Ophelia’s hands. The witch was standing at the door, batons drawn. A man stood beside the witch, dressed in nothing but gym shorts.

“Give me back my book.” The witch’s voice was quiet and deathly serious. “Now.”

Serine’s hands flew into position. “How about we-”

“Serine.” Ophelia’s voice was a whisper compared to Serine’s shouting. “Witch, I request a bargaining.”

“A bargaining?” Serine and the witch’s voice echoed against each other with various levels of disbelief.

“Yes. I wish to strike a deal with you.” Ophelia’s voice was measured as she knelt to pick up the book. “I will return the book to you, and allow you to leave this place. In return, you will give me your name.”

“My name?” The witch’s laugh was soft, far more melodious than Ophelia would have assumed. “What kind of fool do you take me to be? You will let me leave here with my life in your pocket.”

“Inertial Monks don’t use Named magics. You would be safe from our persecution.”

“Your persecution, you specify. To whom would you give my name so that they may persecute me in your stead?” Ophelia was silent. “I want my book back little monk. You will give it to me or this man will die.” The man in gym shorts didn’t even blink. Looking closer, Ophelia could see his eyes were unfocused, and a small sigil burned just above his forehead.

“You’re compelling him,” Ophelia breathed. “You’ve overwritten his free will.”

“Yes.” The witch didn’t even blink, just kept his intense gaze focused on the monks.

“That violates-”

“The Innocents Clause of the Seventh Day Accords, Article Two, Section Three. I know. I don’t care.”

“You’ll be punished.” Ophelia was breathless. “Your Coventium will turn on you. The Monks will go after you. Everything will crumble around you until someone finally stops your heart. Take an absolution from me. Serine, remind him of his charges.”

“Ah.” Serine stepped forward, mentally filing every offence committed by the witch. He had broken into neutral ground, attempted to summon a Lord-of-Mist, attacked Ophelia and he, and harmed an innocent. “You are guilty on four counts of breaching the Accords,” he said at last. “Things aren’t looking up for you.” Serine unconsciously held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. The witch was dangerous, and Ophelia was playing with fire.

“So take the absolution.” Ophelia was rock solid. “I can waive your violations of the Peace Clause. We’re going to come for you either way. You cannot hide. But I can help. Tell me your name and you get your book back and an immunity.”

“No.” The witch almost seemed sad. Then a lot of things happened at once. Batons were in hands and runes were sketched faster than Serine could blink, and the next thing Serine knew he was flat on the ground. Fire sprung from the pew benches, and the man in gym shorts stood dumb in front of the blaze. The witch had hurled himself at Ophelia, and the two were currently physically fighting on the ground. The man had dug his nails into the book, and was trying to pry it from Ophelia’s hands. Ophelia ripped the book from the witch with an audible snap, and swiftly followed it with a knee to the witch’s chest. Fear and pain and surprise, all true and genuine, took turns flashing in the witch’s eyes. Then his body dissolved, breaking apart into gently floating motes.

“What the hell?” Serine rose slowly, glancing at Ophelia.

“Oh, Serine, we did it. I got it!” Ophelia’s joyful expression was shattered when she fully noticed that the church was still on fire. The flames had only spread, completely engulfing all the pews and reaching up into tapestries. The man in gym shorts was gone. Ophelia didn’t want to think too hard about where he might be. “Oh God. Serine, get us out of here.”

Serine sketched out the rune to take them back to Eden, eyes avoiding the quietly spreading flames. Ophelia clung tight to him as the magic whisked them away, leaving the church to burn.


	5. Quotations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia preaches from her own little bible while Serine can't read the room to save his life.

“Lay me down once I have loved, for I shall never live again.” Ophelia closed her little book with a snap, the well worn binding making a tiny noise as the well loved pages came together. “Isn’t that just the quaintest thing you’ve ever heard?” Ophelia was lounging in Serine’s quarters as she was fond of doing, her inky black hair falling around her head as she reclined on Serine’s loveseat. Serine was seated at his desk, editing a score he had composed. It was a perfect scene, Serine supposed. He was with music, his second love, and Ophelia, his first. It was a bright and sunny day, and everything was the perfect amount of calm.

Serine carefully dotted a quarter note. “I suppose it is nice.”

“I think it’s more than nice! It’s pithy and sweet and a touch bit sad.”

Serine turned in his chair, offering Ophelia a wry smile. “You think sad is nice?”

“Oh yes. I think all the best things must be a little bit sad. Otherwise we would all just be happy all the time and take happiness for granted.”

Serine scoffed. “I’d rather be happy all the time.”

Ophelia waved her hand in Serine’s general direction with a laugh. “Oh, you would.” Ophelia’s finger traced the green cover, following the loops and swirls of the title’s font. “What do you suppose it means though? ‘Lay me down’ and such? I was always rubbish at metaphors and deeper meanings in the academy classes. You were fairly good at that though, weren’t you? I seem to remember the instructor boasting on your behalf one day. Oh, tell me what you think!”

Serine ran a hand through his hair, absentmindedly twirling a pen between his fingers. “Oh, I don’t know. If I put my own opinions on it, I think it’s pretty obvious that love is an ending for someone.”

“An ending?” Ophelia sounded slightly scandalized. “That’s rather melancholy. I much prefer to think of love as a beginning. How on earth could you come up with anything so dreary?”

“Well, for starters, all the language is very funeral like. But think of it this way.” Serine put the pen down, slightly leaning forward. “When you love someone, truly invest everything in them, then everything else falls away. They’re your world all of a sudden, and that’s all you would want.”

Ophelia gave Serine a look out of the corner of her eye, doubt evident. “Go on…”

“The first part ties into that, if you should lose that love you may as well be laid to rest, because you would have lost your world and your life. The phrase is in in a funny tense, implying the love has been lost, or will inevitably be lost. I think it’s a bit more than just a little bit sad.”

“He’s obsessed with love,” Ophelia murmured.

“Yeah.”

“You’re right, that is more than a little sad.” Ophelia paused for a moment. “And it’s merely your take on it. I still like it though. But enough of that,” she said, opening the book, “let’s find something cheerful.” Pages were rapidly turned and Serine could catch glimpses of Ophelia’s neat cursive annotations along the margins. Serine himself could never bring himself to mark in a book, but Ophelia loved to annotate. “Oh,” Ophelia exclaimed, stopping at one. “I love this one! ‘All things come to dawn, and such we cycle on, til’ all renews at break.’” Ophelia looked at Serine for a moment, waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t she offered him an exaggerated sigh. “Even I know this one. It means all things happen in rotations, and even though bad things may happen we’re still in line for a sunrise. Now isn’t that lovely?”

Serine removed his glasses, tapping the frames against the table in thought. He stayed silent, choosing not to voice his concerns about the inevitable sunset and ensuing dark. Serine was a pessimist, that was just part of who he was. But he didn’t have to go and ruin Ophelia’s book for her. Serine could, however, ruin the mood by bringing up what happened in Florence. 

“Ophelia, you need to call an Aggregation.” The words were much more direct than he had intended. It had been about a week since the events in Florence, and Ophelia had been dealing with all of it by doing absolutely nothing. The waiting game was killing him. Serine had never been any good with patience. Unsurprisingly, the atmosphere was markedly less jovial than it had been just moments before. Even the sunlight seemed muted.

“What? Why would I ever want to do that?” She was playing dumb, and they both hated it. Whether they liked it or not, that witch had committed serious crimes. And the longer the monks waited, the more likely the witch was to try something like that again.

“To deal with what happened a week ago.” Their voices were both measured. Neither of them could be hostile, the other had been through the same experience.

“Why do I need to make a big deal out of something like that?” There was a look between them as Ophelia straightened on the loveseat. Her posture was ramrod straight, her face a perfect mask of civil conversation.

“Because what happened was serious. We can’t play it off or pretend it was no big deal. Rules were broken Ophelia, big, important rules that keep our world bound together. This could mean war. And the witch is still out there.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Ophelia seemed… smaller, all of a sudden. She brought her knees to her chest, propping her chin up. “Think of where we stand, and what we could do. If I call this Aggregation and it comes to war, what we witnessed, think of how we will always be tied to it. I know what happened was big and important, but I’m not ready to take that step into a brave new world of uncertainty. I can’t get past what we would mean to history.”

“Oh.” Green eyes met Serine’s brown. “We can move on from here. We have to move on from here to the next step. But you know we can do it together. You don’t have to face any of this alone. I’ll be in the history books with you.”

“Yeah.” Ophelia uncurled, her back still unusually straight. “That night, when I pulled the book from him, he had his fingers digging into the cover. That pop, surely you heard it, was a nail breaking. We have part of his fingernail, which means we can find him.”

“Oh,” Serine said again. “We should tell the Arch Sophisticate.”

“I have.” Serine shouldn’t have been surprised. Ophelia was nothing but efficient. The night they had come back, Serine had immediately went to his rooms to bathe and change out of his soaked robes. He hadn’t thought at all where Ophelia had gone during the hour he had spent undressing, soaking, and redressing. But with the way Ophelia had been moping around and avoiding all mention of Florence, Serine had just assumed she was keeping mum about everything from everyone.

“What did he say we should do?”

“Ah. He didn’t really give any indication. He just kinda nodded.” Serine was surprised at that. Usually the Arch Sophisticate was much more affirmative. “I think he may be having some sort of trouble,” Ophelia confessed. “He seemed very… off, that night, in a way I can’t quite place. Granted, it’s was one night a week ago, and I haven’t seen him since then to be able to tell if he’s still out of sorts, so perhaps it was just an off night.”

“You haven’t seen him in a week?” Serine was incredulous. Ophelia gave a little hum in affirmation. “The Arch Sophisticate prides himself on always keeping up with everyone. He spoke to me in the halls just a day ago. How were you not there? We’re almost literally inseparable.”

“Really? Oh, isn’t that peculiar. Why on earth weren’t we together? Well, I suppose it’s just one of those things. We’re deviating quite terribly from the point of this… debate.”

“You need to call an Aggregation.” Serine was pushing it, pushing her.

“So you’ve said.” Ophelia wasn’t even blinking, her focus was so complete; the conversation was like a fencing match.

“This is bigger than any of us.” A small barb, a swipe of the saber.

“Probably.” Parry.

“So call it. Let the monks decide.” Lunge.

“Urg, I hate big meetings. They’re so political and inconvenient.” She was still being coy. Serine loosened the reins on his aggravation.

“Damn it Ophelia, you’re beating around the bush. We bit the apple. Now we must bear the seeds.” Serine didn’t yell. Serine never yells. But Ophelia flinched at the tone and jerked as if she had been struck.

“I hate you.” Ophelia spat the words. “No,” she amended a split second later, “I hate that you’re right. And I hate that I can’t avoid this.”

“The only way out,” Serine began,

“Is through,” Ophelia finished. “I know. But I hate it. I’ll speak to the Arch Sophisticate about calling an Aggregation.” And just like that the battle was over.

“Thank you. I’ll help you however I can.”

“I know. I’ll mostly need you to get the messages out to everyone.”

“I can do that.”

Ophelia rose, moving to the window of Serine’s rooms. She looked out at the city, at the thousands of windows in the city glittering in the sunlight. Eden was called the Crystal City in some texts, and in moments like this Ophelia knew why. It was gorgeous. And she could set it down the path to become nothing but rubble. There was nothing in the world Edonians feared more than an enemy at the gates. This city was out of time, in more ways than one, and secret doubts rose time from time about the Inertial Monks’ ability to truly protect this realm should violence make its way through the portal arch. Even among the monks themselves. “Blessed is this city,” she said to the sky.

“For we live in peace by the grace of God,” Serine finished. “It’s not a real Beatitude.”

“But it’s such a lovely phrase.” Ophelia pointed to her book sitting on Serine’s loveseat. “Page two. It’s the first quotation on there, recorded from Arch Sophisticate Petrikov.”

“What’s on page one?”

“A dedication and my name. And the printer too, most likely.”

Serine opened the book out of curiosity and flipped through the pages. “No printer is listed in here.”

Ophelia frowned and turned from the window, taking the book from Serine’s hands. “Peculiar. I got it from the book cart on Tully Street one day when I went with you to get your eye medication. But I don’t suppose it really matters. Just gives us something to talk about other than the Aggregation.” Ophelia groaned suddenly and ground her fists into her eyes. “Oh god, we’ll have to have a meal. There’s always a meal. I hate this. It hasn’t even started and I hate it.”

“I’ll take care of that for you. You just need to worry about the address you’ll give.”

Ophelia seemed not to have heard Serine and kept talking, locked in on the details of the meal. “Can we not have it in the dining hall? Or the yard? Oh, and do the traditional fish and bread meal thing. The individual choices can be up to you.”

“Alright,” Serine said, counting off on his fingers, “I’ll send out invitations tonight, then I’ll arrange the menu and the venue, shall I take care of seating as well?”

“Please,” Ophelia begged. “Otherwise I’ll have the Arch Sophisticate on one side and some awful acolyte on the other.”

“Alright. I’ll write the invitations now. How…” Serine trailed off, then decided the original question he thought of was acceptable. “How secretive do you want to be?”

Ophelia chewed her lip. It was a valid question. A small smile played across her lips as a decision was made. “Let them know,” she said at last. “Let everyone know. No details on why the Aggregation was called, but I want every magi on two continents to know we’re moving. If this is going to terrify me, I want that fear to echo around the world. I want them shaking in their boots, and I want that one witch in particular to know we’re coming for him. I want them scared, Serine.”

“As you wish.” It was a dangerous look, the one in Ophelia’s eyes. It spoke to a fire and spirit that few saw outside of battle. But, despite the slow startup and the trials to come, the game was on for Ophelia. Serine couldn’t wait to see where this went next. Serine arranged himself at his desk and put pen to parchment; it was time to work.


	6. Holding Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serine's planned a party, and Ophelia experiences the cutting edge of democracy. Plus, there's some wine!

The Inertial Monks were an old order. Dedicated completely to the protection of Eden and the natural balance of the earth, they did nothing lightly. The Order was, as always, fourteen monks and a Arch Sophisticate, each knowing their duties and roles in the ever developing universe. Rarely did the monks meet, but when any number gathered it was always due to grave events. The last Aggregation had been only six years ago, a very short time given the longevity of the Inertial Monks as both individuals and as an order. Ophelia had called this meeting, and everyone knew it. A monk rarely called an Aggregation; almost all meetings were at the behest of the Arch Sophisticate. No one knew what the Monk in Blue had to say, only that it was a significant enough issue to call for the entire ensemble of monks.

Ophelia was nervous, not that it would show on her face. The world of inter-monk relations was cut throat, despite the many politely smiling faces, and any number of scheming acolytes could take advantage of any political misstep. Serine was as dedicated as promised to Ophelia, ensuring the Aggregation would come together without a hitch. The Council Hall had been prepped, the upper balconies secured, the bronze conference table polished to a sheen. Every rune carved into the columns that encircled the room glowed softly, and the sphere of light above the table sang with quiet energy. The North Tower of the fortress was prepared for the dinner, the servants in the kitchen hard at work preparing the meal. 

The people of Eden pretended not to notice when the great doors of the fortress were opened, or when the monks made their way inside clad in their colorful battle robes. Within the Council Hall, Ophelia stood on the dias in front of the main column, the runes glowing blue to respond to her presence. Directly opposite her stood the Arch Sophisticate, silver-white light ebbing from the runes carved behind him. As each set of monks filed in and took their places, the columns filled the room with light. When every monk was in attendance, Ophelia began to speak.

“The Coventium Europe has made a… transgression.” Ophelia paused, allowing the monks to murmur amongst themselves. She didn’t think anyone had noticed her stumble on her words. Strength was important right now. “On a recent trip to Florence, the Monks in Blue,” Ophelia nodded to Serine, “were witness to a witch’s breaking into accorded neutral grounds. We were drawn by the simple sound of breaking glass, but we discovered the witch channeling the five sources. He was attempting to contact a Lord-of-Mist.” Ophelia paused again, taking in the grave faces of the assembled monks. There were no whispers now. “The Monks in Blue apprehended the witch, but we were forced to fight. During the rush, the witch overrode the free will of an innocent non-magi, turning them into a thrall. The civilian is presumed dead, and the witch escaped.” The room exploded into noise, monks shouting at each other and trying to get Ophelia’s attention.

The room flashed white, silencing the arguing monks. From the depths of his shimmering robes the Arch Sophisticate held up one finger, an unspoken order echoing in his bottomless dark eyes. “Ophelia is not done,” he said, his rich baritone voice cutting through the crowd. “I would like to hear what she has to say.”

“Thank you,” Ophelia said with a nod. “The witch can be found guilty on counts of trespassing neutral grounds, attempting a forbidden summoning, attacking a monk, using magic upon an innocent, and overriding the free will of another. He is specifically prosecutable under the Peace, Planes, and Innocents Clauses of the Seventh Day Accords. I have assembled you all so that we may come to a consensus on what to do next.” Unsurprisingly, Victor was the first to speak.

“Ophelia, I have to ask,” Victor took a moment to brush imaginary dust off of his canary robes, eyes betraying how much enjoyed having the attention on him. “How can we prosecute this witch if we do not know their identity? Just try to fight the entire Coventium? Also, and forgive me for this, is this really our concern? We exist to protect the dormant power of this land and to maintain order. A death of one non-magi, while tragic, is not our top priority.” Serine put a gentle hand on Ophelia’s arm, as if in warning.

“Monk in Yellow, the problem,” Ophelia said tersely, trying to keep her tone diplomatic, “Is that the church lies on a ley line conjunction. That’s why it was accorded neutral in the first place. The witch was channeling the ley line into his spell to communicate with the Lord-of-Mist, thus violating the sanctity of the natural earth. Above all though, he violated the Accords. Unequivocally. Please listen to all of what I say before adding commentary.” Victor turned an ugly shade of pink and slinked to the back of the crowd.

“He did raise a good point,” Joan, a Monk in Red, said. “How do we apprehend one witch that we can’t identify?”

“Ah. We have a sample of flesh from the witch.” Ophelia was being incredibly careful with every word. Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time could lead to a host of problems. “We can place it within the Omnimiricron.” The room devolved into noise again.

“We must declare war on the Coventium,” called out a Monk in Purple.

“All branches of the Coventium, or just Coventium Europe?” There was a Monk in Green.

“Why declare war when we could just persecute the one rogue witch?” There was Victor’s partner, Ophelia could never remember her name. Ophelia was about to respond when a small voice cut in.

“What if we use this as a chance to get the Imperi Pensament?” The voice was quiet, Ophelia couldn’t pinpoint who said it. But all the monks fell silent at once.

“The witches will not yield the Imperi Pensament for something so trivial as placating us.” The Arch Sophisticate’s voice was smooth but firm. “First, we will conduct a Naming. We will send a missive to the Coventium Europe and explain the situation, and they will deliver us the rogue witch. Do not forget, the witches will want to expel the rogue from their order just as much as we will want to apprehend him.”

A voice piped up,“And if the witches betray us? What if they try to trick us? Or  _ steal _ from us?!” The monks devolved back into a shouting mass.

“Calm yourselves.” The Arch Sophisticate didn’t have to shout. The monks knew to listen, and the shouting immediately dissipated. “They will not steal from us. They will not trick us. There will be a civil exchange-- no more, no less. Do I make myself clear?” Agreements were muttered.

“And if the witches will not yield the rogue?” There was Victor again.

“Then it is war,” the Arch Sophisticate said gravely. “We have the right. I have made my choice and decided on our action. Any future comments can be directed towards me. Now, I believe, Ophelia has arranged a meal for us.”

“The traditionals,” Ophelia said with a nod. “The food will be served in the North Tower. I have taken the liberty of disinviting the acolytes. Does anyone have a disagreement?” Disagreements were raised. One person wanted the South Tower. Ophelia kindly explained that the tables and chairs had already been set up in the North Tower. Another complained that she was without formalwear. Ophelia made clear that the battle robes were dress enough. Someone wanted the acolytes present, though Ophelia had no idea why. Thankfully, Serine stepped in at that point and negotiated the point down; the highest acolyte class would get an hour of interaction after the dinner was concluded. Once all the details were situated, the Order moved on. Ophelia and Serine hurried to the North Tower, desperate for a few minutes to breathe before the rest of the Order floods in.

“That went well,” Serine observed.

“As well as I could have hoped,” Ophelia agreed. “Now we just have to get through the meal.”

“The meal won’t be that bad.”

“The meal is going to be miserable.” Ophelia was soon proved to only be partially right.

 

The table was gorgeous, Ophelia had to admit. Serine had missed his calling as an interior designer, or perhaps as a party planner. In terms of seat placement, Ophelia sat at the right of the Arch Sophisticate with Serine to her own right. Across from Ophelia and Serine were Joan and Thomas, the Monks in Red. Ophelia was pointedly ignoring the rest of the monks at the table.

The Arch Sophisticate laid down his fork, turning to Ophelia. “You did well, Ophelia. This meeting went splendidly, and I am glad the Order could come to such an elegant agreement.”

“Only with your help, Arch Sophisticate.” Ophelia let the compliment wash over her. Serine smiled into his food. “Shall I draft the missive to the Coventium myself?”

“Oh child,” the Arch Sophisticate laughed, “I have taken the liberty of already sending a memorandum. They shall respond in due time, I am sure. And we can put this incident behind us.”

Serine perked up from Ophelia’s side. “So you are not enraged by the witches’ audacity? That they should so callously break the Accords?”

“It is not,” the Arch Sophisticate warned, “the witches as a whole. Just a singular rogue agent. Be wary of applying the actions of one to the sentiments of many. I am sure this will be over soon.”

“But you are not angry?”

“Child, these things happen more often than anyone realizes. They are just usually smaller in scale. Innocents do not usually get hurt, nor are there usually witnesses.”

Joan, growing tired of her partner’s inability to hold a conversation, turned to her other dining companions. “Arch Sophisticate, will Thomas and I be returning to America to continue our survey of the reservoirs?”

“You will be returning to America, Joan, but not to Alaska. A string of temporal disturbances were recorded making a path down the East Coast, and I will have the Monks in Red investigating those.”

“What sort of disturbances, Arch Sophisticate?” The Monk in Yellow, the woman, leaned forward to peer at the Arch Sophisticate from further down the table. After a brief flash of annoyance at the woman for joining the conversation uninvited, Ophelia kicked herself for still not remembering her name. It began with an O, she thought. “Would it have anything to do with the report I sent you regarding the ley line shifts?”

“I do not know, Olistene. It is either the ley lines or extra-planar entities.” Ophelia breathed a sigh of relief. She would have been dreadfully embarrassed if she would have had to talk to Olistene without actually knowing her name. “The ley line theory is not impossible, but there is no direct causation that I can discern.” The Arch Sophisticate grew quiet and steepled his fingers, seemingly lost in thought. “Victor, what did you conclude from your time in the temple libraries as to the possibilities of ley lines moving?”

“Well,” Victor began, rolling his wrist. “Long story short is that we don’t know if they are moving or not, but it’s definitely possible that they could. Whether you fall on the crack or vein side of the debate doesn’t really matter, they have the potential to root out or further crack. One of those options is, of course, a monumental danger to the stability of the universe and reality as we know it, but the other is incredibly promising.”

“But you think the shifting can be responsible for the disturbances,” Serine asked, trying to bring Victor to the point.

Olistene chose to answer for her partner. “Well, yes.” Olistene nodded and took a bite of salmon before continuing. “Ley lines are, one way or another, veritable rivers of extra-planar energy. And if the rivers swell the banks, that’s a disturbance, wouldn’t you say?” Serine nodded. “Victor here is doing incredible work in terms of learning about the history of the lines, and how they connect to the intangible connecting life web from which we draw magic.”

“And what are you working on?”

“Well, once we learned that ley lines could move, all my time has been dedicated to how we can move them intentionally.”

Ophelia’s brow furrowed. “To what effect?”

“The Monks in Yellow and I,” the Arch Sophisticate began, “are attempting to reroute a ley line to cut through Eden.”

“That sounds… beneficial,” Serine said.

“Quite.” The Arch Sophisticate took a sip of wine and said no more.

Across from Ophelia, Joan perked up. “If the disturbances are entities brought in from another plane, and you said they could be,” Joan  began, “do you think it’s possible we have a summoner in America tied to the rogue agent the Monks in Blue faced in Florence?”

Olistene shook her head. “That is definitely improbable.”

Ophelia leaned in. “But not impossible?”

Olistene inclined her head. “Well, I suppose very little is totally impossible. But a summoner over there would no doubt have been intercepted by the Coventium America long before now. Those witches are particularly… judicious, as of late. They would not tolerate a rogue agent for long.”

“Witches,” Victor cursed.

“Witches,” the Arch Sophisticate echoed, although his voice did not hold the same venom. “Ophelia, is it not time for you to address your guests?”

“Ah.” Ophelia rose. “Inertial Monks. Our official formalities draw to a close with each passing moment. It has been my utmost pleasure to hold this meal for you, and a privilege to entertain you. Were you not entertained?” Ophelia was silent for a moment, as was tradition, and took the time to look into the other monks’ faces. She saw anger. Contentment. Apprehension. Vague indifference. But it seemed that her dinner had gone off perfectly. “Now, I believe, we are to host the top class of acolytes. Shall a servant fetch them?” From the doorway, a servant bowed and exited, cloth whispering as he left.

The Arch Sophisticate rose as the servant closed the door. “Thank you, Ophelia. It is, as always, a joy for me to see you all here. As an Order, we are in a time of prosperity. I urge you all not to dwell on this brief unpleasantness for any substantial period of time-- those hours will be naught but fruitless.” The Monk in White raised a hand as the acolytes filed into the room. “Behold, our future. Acolytes, one day some of you may sit in this room, eat our food, and indulge in conversation that shapes nations and guards realms. You are our most promising class, our shining stars. I am pleased you are able to talk to the very Monks with whom you may one day serve.”

“And replace,” Serine whispered to Ophelia. She shushed him. Monks currently serving never liked to think of their retirement. It usually involved death of the most unhappy variety. Acolytes, however, thought only of taking a belt. It was one of the many reasons current monks hated them so much. Serine himself couldn’t yet despise the acolytes, he himself had only left their ranks a few years ago. As the acolytes meandered around the dining room, talking to their various elders and role models, Ophelia allowed herself a moment to relax. Everything was going along just as the system intended. The Order had made its decision, and time would divvy out the consequences for the Order to deal with as needed. But as she leaned against a column, answering banal questions from an equally banal acolyte, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened tonight that she had missed. In one moment, in one instant, something had moved too quickly for her to see. And it infuriated her.


	7. Square Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia and Serine have some fun at Ye Olde Biblical Wal-Mart, and the Arch Sophisticate needs someone with whom he can talk.

Ophelia had awoken that night in a cold sweat. She had dreamed she was back at the dinner table from the Aggregation, chained to her chair. Everyone else was at the table, just as before, but they were all frozen. Ophelia couldn’t have heard, for her dream was silent, but she knew that from everyone’s frozen mouth had flown streams of babbling and droning noise. Noise that drowned out everything, muted the colors of the world, and worked its way down Ophelia’s throat to stop her heart cold in her chest. Getting out of bed, Ophelia made her way to the pitcher in the small kitchen area of her quarters. She could go get Serine, she supposed as she poured a cup of water. Her fellow Monk in Blue would have no objections to her waking him if she explained that she was having nightmares. But dreams were hard to explain, and the thoughts that prompted the dream were even harder to explain. Since the dinner, Ophelia could not shake the feeling that something important had happened right under her nose. Some phrase, some sly look, had conveyed an incredible meaning that went unnoticed in the excitement of deciding what to do about the rogue agent.

The glass made a soft clinking noise as Ophelia sat it back on the counter. She glanced at the clock, transfixed by the whirling cogs before actually looking at the hands. It was only four in the morning. She swore softly; today was a market day. Ophelia systematically popped her knuckles as she considered what she wanted to do today. Serine needed to get another dose of his vision medication. Ophelia wanted to try and find that cart from which she got her book of quotations. Then the two of them would go to the farmers market and see what was available this week. Two visits to the mortal world ago, Ophelia had found a recipe for a butternut squash soup, and she wanted to try it out as soon as possible. She didn’t exactly know when butternut squash was in season, but she supposed it had to be sometime soon. After the farmer’s market, she and Serine usually returned their purchases to the fortress before walking around Eden’s crystal park. All of that would normally be splendid and charming, if she were not shivering in her nightgown at four in the morning, slowing being consumed by her own paranoia. Ophelia took a deep breath and laid back down in bed. She closed her eyes, willing herself to go back to sleep. That’s just what she needed. Sleep.

Eight o’clock came much too quickly for Ophelia. All in all, between the tossing and turning and the incredible time it took for Ophelia to relax, she had gained about two more hours of sleep. Which was good enough for her. Six total hours of sleep was plenty for a day of leisure. Ophelia dressed quickly, opting to leave her hair down for the day. She fiddled with the collar of her tan robes as she strode through the halls to Serine’s quarters and promptly gave three quick raps upon the door before opening it, sticking her head inside the room.

“Serine?” The quarters were silent. Ophelia decided that Serine must be showering, and that she could let herself into his quarters. She moved to her typical spot on the loveseat, her head lolling against the wall as she waited for him to return. Ophelia let her gaze fall straight ahead to Serine’s desk. It was an old secretary style thing, carved primarily out of one hunking piece of walnut wood. Serine took meticulous care of that desk, and Ophelia had no doubt that it was his second most prized possession. Ophelia rose, testing the folding portion that made up the main desk space. Unsurprisingly, the desk was locked. Ophelia was disappointed, despite expecting this exact outcome. She had no business nosing through Serine’s desk or all the little drawers set within the main concave. But goodness did she want to. Eyeballing the books in the hutch atop the desk, Ophelia tried the hutch’s doors too. Once again, the doors were held fast by a little silver lock. On an impulse, Ophelia tried all the drawers under the main desk. All were locked. Huffing out a breath, Ophelia returned to the loveseat, opting to fully lie down. Why did Serine have to spoil her fun? She only wanted to see what he was writing. There was a score in there, she thought, some orchestral thing that he had been working on for ages and ages. That would have been nice to look at, even if she couldn’t really read music. Ophelia didn’t remember dozing off, but she awoke to Serine before her, seated at that desk. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and his hair was still damp, so she supposed he had just returned from the bathing area and she hadn’t been asleep for too long.

“Hey you,” she said by way of greeting. “Good morning.”

Absorbed in his work, Serine jerked a bit at her voice. “Good morning to you too.”

“How long have I been here,” Ophelia asked, blinking and stretching.

“I’ve been back around ten minutes,” Serine replied. “If you got here right after I left and went to sleep immediately, you couldn’t have slept for more than half an hour.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Serine turned fully to face her, offering a smile Ophelia couldn’t name. “You looked peaceful, sleeping there. Like you needed it.”

“I did. Thank you.” Ophelia got up and leaned over him, giving her partner a hug. She rested her chin on his head for a moment before drawing back. “New soap?”

Serine shook his head. “New shampoo: mint and lemon.”

“I like it.”

“Thank you, I thought of you when I bought it.”

“Did you get it from the perfumery?”

“No, a soap peddler on Market Street. I’ll show you today.”

“Ooh. I’m looking forward to it.” Ophelia drew back as Serine rolled up the paper he was working on. The parchment went into one cubby, the pen to another, and Serine gently closed and locked the desk. “You know Serine dearest, I really hate how you lock everything up. I was trying to go through it earlier and you had gone and closed me off.” Ophelia said it with a laugh, but Serine went white.

“I suppose that’s exactly why I lock it up,” he said. “So you can’t go snooping around in my writings and such.” If his voice had sounded a little peculiar, Ophelia didn’t notice.

“Ah well, maybe one day you’ll let me take a peek or two.”

“Maybe,” Serine flatly echoed. “Let’s go to the market.

“Ooh, let’s. I want to find that cart that sold me my book of quotations while you get your vision medication.”

Serine shook his head. “I’m telling you, you must be thinking of the book cart down in the market proper. There’s no cart on Tully Street.”

“I,” Ophelia said, tapping Serine on the nose, “think you’re wrong. We’ll see.” And off they went.

* * *

Ophelia was disappointed to learn that butternut squash were not, in fact, in season, but extraordinarily pleased when the vendor was still able to sell her one from the last harvest. The vendor was a good natured man, if a bit jittery. He spoke with the local inflection, and his eyes never stopped moving. Neither did his mouth, it seemed.

“‘S only been a couple of months my lady, I’m sure it’ll be to your liking. They’re good to store, the squash are.”

Ophelia beamed, holding her produce to her chest. “Oh, thank you so much! How much do I owe you for this?”

“Nothing!” The vendor’s eyes flitted back and forth between Serine and Ophelia. “I could never charge the Inertial Monks for something so trivial as a squash!”

“But it’s your livelihood.” Ophelia’s eyebrows furrowed. “How will you continue to go on?”

“No, no. No charge! I insist!” The vendor was emphatic, waving his hands in the air as he refused the silver piece Ophelia kept trying to give him.

“Ophelia, let him be. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“But…” Ophelia didn’t like taking gifts. They always felt patronizing for some reason, as if she wasn’t good enough to get it for herself. It was something she was working on, accepting what she was given. But she wasn’t quite there yet. Ophelia liked to know that she earned what she took, and she hadn’t earned a squash. On the other hand, she was beginning to make a scene. Serine was giving her a look that clearly indicated he wanted to leave, and Ophelia was running out of ways to refuse. “Fine.” Ophelia gave a small bow to the vendor before turning with Serine down the street.

“I need to get my medicine still,” Serine reminded her.

“Oh, yeah. Let’s go get that.” Ophelia and Serine turned onto Tully Street and were halfway down when the pavement shattered in front of them. Sigils flared to life as both monks shielded themselves from the shards of rock flying in the air, both immediately ready for a fight. Fights don’t happen in Eden; the city was beyond violence. Eden was beyond time itself to protect people from violence, and the fact that the monks might have to brawl an enemy in the streets of the Crystal City shook them to their cores. From the other end of the city, the two monks could hear the Tree’s crystalline leaves chiming in a nonexistent wind.

“The temple,” Serine choked out. They turned, gazing at the burning white light that enveloped the central tower of the fortress. “What is this?”

“I don’t know,” Ophelia breathed. “We need to get to the fortress.” She began to run, darting over the broken streets. Barreling through the market, Ophelia could see goods and wares scattered all across the square, dumped from their now broken stalls. The vegetable salesman from earlier screamed and crossed himself as Ophelia passed him. The monks couldn’t blame him. Their feet pounded a steady beat as the pair sprinted towards the tallest tower.

* * *

“Ursaril, you wanted to play the game. You tried to manipulate and maneuver the witches and then you lost.” Olistene’s tone was almost bored as she righted a chair and sat down amidst the wreckage of the Arch Sophisticate’s office. Every item, save for the witches’ note, had been blasted off of the surface of the desk with the first wave of anger. The paintings and various tapestries had been ripped from the walls by the second wave of emotion. The third blast had been the biggest, and admittedly the most impulsive, throwing all the furniture in the room on its sides and cracking several windows. Energy still lingered around the walls, silver sparks and waves rolling off one another and making menacing pops as they touched.

“It wasn’t supposed to go like this.” The Arch Sophisticate glared down at the paper, eyeing the neat cursive. No matter how many times he looked at the lavender colored paper, the words never changed. The witches claimed that the Monks had overstepped their bounds. The Monks demanded the rogue agent, and the witches wanted to keep it in house. The Accords never explicitly specified how rogue agents were to be dealt with, so the Arch Sophisticate supposed that this had been inevitable. Now just seemed to be the perfect storm of tension and action.

“You don’t get to control how this goes. How any of this goes. This is bigger than you, bigger than any one person.” Olistene had been meeting with the Arch Sophisticate when Matthew delivered the note. The Monk in Yellow had been prepared for it to be bad news; Olistene couldn’t have failed to notice Matthew’s adam's apple bob against his collar as the paper was placed on the desk. The last edge of the servant’s dove grey capelet had just vanished around the corner before Ursaril had exploded. Olistene had patiently shielded herself through all three waves of his anger, though she needn't have wasted the energy. The Arch Sophisticate wouldn’t touch her. “Are you done throwing your tantrum now?”

“I’m not throwing a tantrum.”

Olistene cocked her head. “The maelstrom is manifested.” The Arch Sophisticate swore as the silver cloud of energy faded away. “Much better. We both know you’re capable of so much more than just impulse. So what now?”

The Arch Sophisticate sat down heavily. “We go to war with Coventium Europe.”

“They will call for help. Other Coventiums will support them.”

“There are no witches in Russia,” the Arch Sophisticate said softly. “There will be costs.”

“Indeed. There always are. Can we pay? Ursaril, can you pay?”

“I am paying.” The Arch Sophisticate’s fingers drummed a beat on the desk. “Where’s the box? Or the two you told me about earlier?”

“The two are dead.” Olistene didn’t bother acknowledging the Arch Sophisticate’s look of dismay. “The box is in the wrong hands.”

“Was it not--”

“No. They’re trying to figure out how to work it now, and then we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“But it was taken?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“Such a sharp tongue, Ursaril.” A smile played across Olistene’s features as she looked down, and it was not particularly pleasant in any sense of the word.

“Olistene?” The Monk in Yellow looked up from where she had been rubbing her fingernails against one another. “Get out of my chambers.” With a slight noise that sounded almost like disapproval, Olistene stood and made her way out of the room. About a quarter down the hallway, she crossed paths with the Monks in Blue. Both were running; the girl seemed to have a squash clutched to her chest. Olistene suppressed a sigh. This wasn’t what she needed right now.

“Stop running,” Olistene chastised. “The Arch Sophisticate is fine. Everything is fine.”

“Fine?” Ophelia sounded incredulous as she skidded to a halt. “The maelstrom of the Arch Sophisticate manifested around the central tower. There were chimes; the streets cracked.”

“I will admit, the Arch Sophisticate did momentarily… lapse, in his control. His emotions bested him, and he did rather lash out.” Olistene waved her hand as if such actions were no big deal, as if the Arch Sophisticate regularly split streets in his anger. Something was really wrong.

“Why?”

Olistene clicked her tongue. Sometimes the truth really was best. “We’re going to war with the witches.”

“Oh.” Serine and Ophelia stood still for a moment.

“I was going to make soup,” Ophelia murmured to herself. In her own head, Olistene scoffed. Surely there were more important things to think about right now than soup.

“I’m going to find Victor,” Olistene said as she moved past the Monks in Blue. “Do not disturb the Arch Sophisticate. I imagine he is drafting a response to the witches and an address to the Order. Good day.” With a flourish of her golden robes Olistene was on her way.

“War,” Serine said slowly, as if the word didn’t make sense.

“Yeah.” Ophelia was quiet. “The man in the market…” She trailed off, not finishing her sentence. She didn’t really need to, Serine had seen him too. It was almost funny, in retrospect, but not in a comedic way. Ophelia didn’t begrudge the vendor anymore. If anything, she shared his sentiments. “War,” she said simply.


	8. Bridge Builders, Home Burners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Arch Sophisticate's study, the tactician and the leader debate war and consequences.

“Olistene, run the sequence again.” The Arch Sophisticate steepled his fingers, watching the light show move before him. Each dot of light on the table represented a monk, colored appropriately, and each smoky grey wisp was a witch. Sigils burned at Olistene’s fingers as she maneuvered the lights, projecting scenarios for attack, and both observers carefully watched each potential encounter play out. Watching the pair of green lights flicker out for the fourth time, the Arch Sophisticate let out a breath and sat back in his chair. “This happy little war of ours became a lot harder with Coventium America’s surprise announcement. They should have stayed neutral. We cannot afford to lose a pair of monks.”

“They are more inconsequential than you think.” Olistene cut out the projection with a wave of her hands. “And in every scenario we always win.” She looked tired, or as tired as she would allow herself to appear. Purple splotches sat heavily under her eyes, and her gaze had lost its usual piercing quality.

“We only always win battles” the Arch Sophisticate corrected, “but we cannot envision an entire war.” The two had been running simulations for hours. No scenario seemed to end with a total victory, and the Arch Sophisticate didn’t really want to settle for anything less. There were also frequent civilian casualties, something he was trying to avoid. The Arch Sophisticate could be unquestionably merciless; the position called for it. But he detested senseless killing. Olistene, however, showed none of the Arch Sophisticate’s restraint. And she seemed to be unraveling quickly.

“We will win,” Olistene declared. “We just need to cripple America before they can fully come into their own and realize any goals. Victor has a host of potential targets selected. If we strike down just one major American witch family, it could lull the rest into passiveness. It's not their war, so one good humbling will remind them of their official promise.”

“Or whip them into a fervor,” the Arch Sophisticate countered. “Be wary of martyrdom.”

“They will not rise together if we are big enough, bold enough, intimidating enough. We just have to hit them once, hurt them, and they will stand aside.”

The Arch Sophisticate drummed his fingers on the table. There was an obvious question to be asked, and its presence was stifling. Better to say it now rather than later.“Is all this really necessary to find one witch? We are just hunting the rogue agent.” The search for the witch was important, there was no question. But even the Arch Sophisticate himself worried that things were spiraling out of control.

Olistene froze, a look of shock and anger on her face, as if the Arch Sophisticate’s question had personally insulted her. “This may have started as a hunt, but you read with your own eyes how the witches insult us! Belladonna and Quixival themselves! How they accused us of lying, of breaking the Accords! They are all witches, Ursaril. It’s not as if they don’t deserve to be flushed out and killed. War is long overdue.” Olistene referred so casually to the memorandum from Coventium Europe, from the desk of Matriarch Belladonna herself, in which the witch suggested that perhaps the Inertial Monks were overstepping their boundaries and had best keep to their crystal city. Personally, the Arch Sophisticate bristled at Olistene’s knowledge of sensitive information more than at the rude letter. Politics were politics, but Olistene could be vindictive, as evidenced by her ruthless scenarios.

“For you, perhaps.” The Arch Sophisticate was quiet again, gazing at a globe. “You mentioned targets? What targets do you suggest?”

“The Coventium America estate is in Central America, most likely central Mexico. I would hunt along ley lines to see if we can’t find its exact position. A strike at the heart would be invaluable and devastating. Coventium Europe is already weakened from a not unsimilar disaster, perhaps we could drag Coventium America down to their state of disarray.”

“For such a fearsome tactician and such a bright woman, that was a remarkably stupid thing to say,” the Arch Sophisticate murmured. “Do you think we haven’t searched for the Estate’s location for decades? Centuries? I suspect it is sequestered away much like ourselves. We won’t find it before the end of this conflict, that is certain.”

Olistene said nothing, but instead looked at the Arch Sophisticate with thinly veiled hatred. “We will find it,” she hissed, “and it will burn. You are the Arch Sophisticate, and you have me. In the meantime, there are family houses to attack.”

“Families?”

“Is that dismay I hear in your voice, Ursaril?” Olistene and the Arch Sophisticate’s eyes met for a moment. “You’re so soft. Yes, family homes. Not the outposts that some live in-- Victor has isolated the ancestral residences of eight families. In particular, there is the Villa Montpaisse in Nova Scotia, the Sandoute Manor in the southern United States, and the Morales family’s Casa del Arbol in Puerto Rico. All three are relatively undefended, for a variety of reasons. Our windows are closing at different paces for different locations, so we would have to act quickly. The Monks in Purple could be in and out within four hours, and all three could have valuable information. All three would go up like kindling. But whichever one we choose would be the only one we could hit, the other houses will scramble to protect themselves after such a vicious attack to another family.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I don’t particularly remember asking.” Olistene stood, and lights flared around her as she replayed a scenario. “I think we should go with plan 12B. Even if we lose one of the Monks in Green, we can either try to use the box or we can replace them.”

“The box is…?”

“Going to be back in our court before the end of the month,” Olistene said with a smirk. “Voyager is being kind to us.”

“Voyager is playing us,” the Arch Sophisticate sighed.

“Yes, but what else is to be expected? We think we know how to utilize the box to its full potential, and once we’re certain of that Voyager won’t even matter any more.”

The Arch Sophisticate stood to meet the Monk in Yellow, collecting his robes around him. “This isn’t what the angels would want.”

“Well,” Olistene sneered, “we both know that angels are far from perfect, wasting away in their infinities. Honestly, were they here and told of our mission, they would probably help us.”

The Arch Sophisticate stood still for a breath before hunching over his desk. He produced a piece of paper and wrote several neat lines of instruction on it before folding the paper and calling into the hall for his Secretariat. “Matthew, come in here.” As always, the servant filed in silently. The robes of the secretariat were cut from one cloth, from the collar bound tight around Matthew’s neck to the ties securing his pants at his ankles. Ursaril had outfitted his Secretariat in a dove grey, and all the overlapping cloth gave Matthew an unnerving, shapeless appearance. Olistene hated it, but she supposed that was rather the point. Matthew hated it too, for a variety of reasons. The least being the oh so casual cruelty laced into the design. The Secretariat belonged to the Arch Sophisticate, and that was absolute.

Disappointed that she didn’t see any of the instructions, Olistene began to probe. She had a feeling those few lines meant something quite important. “Ursaril, what’s on the paper?” As usual, Matthew said nothing as he accepted the folded sheet. The Arch Sophisticate gave no acknowledgement that he had heard Olistene’s question.

“Matthew, take this to the Monks in Blue. Give them any supplies they might need. You know what to do.” The servant nodded before flowing out of the room just as silently as he had entered. “There. You made me think of something that could actually benefit us, Monk in Yellow. You have my thanks.”

Olistene blinked. “My comment about the angels? How… you’re not trying to recruit angels to help, are you? The only ones that potentially could are the Stonewalkers or any...” Olistene’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. “Are you scrounging for a fallen angel? That would be so delicious. Especially if ended up being that Angel of Nature. What’s his name? Jasiel?”

“Jasrien,” the Arch Sophisticate said flatly. “And no, I am not trying to employ fallen angels. You made me think of something else.”

“Well, are you going to tell me?” Olistene batted her eyelashes. “I am your chief strategist. I feel we should share everything, Ursaril.”

“I feel we shouldn’t,” the Arch Sophisticate said as he sat down again. “I don’t trust you not to try to interfere with the Monks in Blue. You will approve of this plan when it comes to fruition, Olistene.”

“I could make you tell me,” Olistene crooned. She sat upon the Arch Sophisticate’s desk, looking down at him through slitted eyes. “I have my ways.”

“I’m sure you do. Now if you would please leave my desk, I have a letter to open.” 

Olistene removed herself from the desk, seating herself back in her previous chair. “Read it aloud.”

Both Monk and Arch Sophisticate felt the static charge of power sweep the room as the letter’s seal was broken. “I’m afraid you won’t understand it,” the Arch Sophisticate said as his eyes scanned the paper. “It’s written in a language older than either of us.”

“Then tell me what it says.”

“No. Get one of your angels to do so.”

“Do you deny me, Ursaril?”

“Yes.”

“Why,” Olistene breathed. The question hung heavily in the air.

“Because I trust you with so much,” Ursaril responded, “yet I trust you so little.”

“I’m glad you’re brave enough to say it,” Olistene said flatly. “But I wish it weren’t so. We will go on together to do incredible things, Ursaril. You just have to let me in.”

“Call me by my title, Monk in Yellow. My name is reserved for my friends.”

“You don’t have friends,” Olistene jeered. “You have me. And I have you.” A sigil flared at the Arch Sophisticate’s fingertips, both monks silently watching the letter burn, still clutched in the Arch Sophisticate’s hands. “I have you,” Olistene repeated, monotone. Neither person said anything else. Olistene’s eyes tracked the fire's path, and she only left the chamber when there was nothing but ash. Ash from a letter, written by a friend, echoing words from so long ago. A night where there was only dancing and snow, and no one was hurt.


	9. The Pear Farmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia and Serine reach out to a potential ally and receive a bit more information than they had hoped for.

Serine hated California. He hated the heat, he hated how easily he burned in the sun, and he hated the coarse grains of sand that kept appearing in various crevices, even though the Monks in Blue were miles from the ocean. These grains weren’t at all like the smooth, almost silky sand that his necklace produced, these grains were nothing but a nuisance. Serine and Ophelia had received a note from one of the servants less than twelve hours ago. The man hadn’t seemed like much, but the note he delivered contained instructions straight from the Arch Sophisticate. Ophelia had practically squealed with delight.

“Another mission,” she had cried, rushing to get her robes on before even reading the note. “How I love a mission! Any chance to get out of these brooding old walls.” Serine shared her sentiments. Since the formal declaration of war, life in Eden had grown increasingly somber. The mission seemed easy, a two part errand to the American west coast. If you looked at it from the right angle, it was a mission about fostering friendship, and Ophelia did love friends. So here the two monks were, standing in front of a farm in southern California. A warp rune waited behind them, primed if the monks needed a quick getaway. An unlikely outcome, but not a bad precaution to have in place.

“Do you think we’re in the right place?”

“I would say so,” Ophelia muttered, glancing at the trees full of birds, all intently watching the monks. “Normal birds don’t do that.” A quaint farmhouse stood directly ahead of the monks, with a larger barn behind the house. Trees were abundant in the fields, all full of pears. A peculiar sight in April.

“Definitely the right place,” Serine declared, pointing towards the trees in question. Ophelia nodded, steeling herself.

“Best manners,” she hissed at Serine. Serine, for his part, nodded and put on a conciliatory face. Then Ophelia was rapping at the door, and worse, the door was being opened. Serine felt his stomach drop as he and Ophelia spoke.

“Saint Icara,” Ophelia and Serine murmured in unison as they sketched a bow towards the farmer.

“Inertial Monks on my doorstep,” the Saint said mildly. “Do come inside.” The farmhouse looked exactly like Serine would expect any mortal farmhouse to look, and if he was being honest, Saint Icara didn’t look all that impressive either. She wore overalls, heavy boots, an ugly plaid shirt, and she kept her hair more or less tucked into the ridiculous cowboy hat she wore.

“Thank you, gracious host.” Ophelia inclined her head towards Icara as she took a seat.

“How may I know you two?”

“Please know my name to be Riverdeep, Saint Icara. The man is Lamb.” Ophelia placed a hand to her heart as she spoke of herself, setting her hand on Serine’s knee as she spoke of him.

The Saint’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing on the topic. “Would you like a glass of water? I am sure you two must be warm in those robes.” The question was innocent enough, but Serine and Ophelia both knew better.

“No thank you, Saint Icara.”

“What if I promised it was out of pure generosity?”

“I still must turn you down, gracious Saint.” Serine was glad Ophelia was doing most of the talking. Icara literally could not lie to the monks, and the monks both knew it was in their best interest not to lie to the Saint either. The little smile the woman gave Ophelia spoke volumes.

“Are we playing games?” Icara smiled again, revealing canines that were a bit too long.

“I would not like to,” Ophelia said delicately.

“But do you think we are playing games now?” Icara leaned in, removing her hat. Her hair tumbled down her back, and Serine and Ophelia both caught sight of the Saint’s sharply pointed ears.

“Yes,” Ophelia whispered. “I think we’re both trying very hard to get something from the other.”

“Quite.” Icara stood and turned towards the door, brushing something off the front of her overalls. “Let us go to the barn for this conversation. I feel it will go easier for all of us.” The Saint paused at the door, looking back at the monks hesitating on the couch. “Oh, God above. I give you my word that I shall not harm you while you are my guests. Now will you come on?” Icara gave Ophelia and Serine a pointed look as the monks slowly rose and filed after her. The trio trudged towards the barn, Serine gently nudging his partner as if to ask why their conversation had to be moved out here. Ophelia shrugged.

“The barn is my domain,” Icara answered, despite the fact that the question had never been vocalized. “It is my slice of Heaven.” Seeing the shocked look on Serine’s face, Icara laughed. “Oh, you must have just been wondering about that. Most people do. Let me reassure you, I am not clandestinely reading your thoughts. You would most definitely feel it.”

“That’s comforting,” Ophelia whispered to Serine. “Though, a mind reader could be a valuable asset. Remind me to mention it to the Arch Sophisticate.” If Icara heard her, the Saint didn’t say anything. Instead, she wheeled open the doors to the barn. Inside sat… an unimpressive tractor. Lining the walls were various other supplies, bags of fertilizer, and assorted farm equipment.

“Saint Icara,” Ophelia began, only for the Saint to silence her with a wave. Icara closed the barn door and picked up the heavy walking stick from where it leaned against the frame. Saint Icara pounded the staff against the barn’s dusty floor three times, and Ophelia had to fight to keep a gasp from escaping as the entire world changed around her. The trio floated in a nebula of stars and mist, with tiny filaments of light darting to and fro across the inky black space. Icara had changed completely, gone were the overalls and clunky boots. Here, she wore a full gown of gossamer and starlight, with a band around her head that glowed with warmth like the sun itself. Serine and Ophelia knew from experience for it to be Divine Light. Even the staff had changed, transforming from a twisted wooden rod to a verdant, flowering staff with a golden orb hovering above the crowning bouquet.

“Welcome to my domain,” Saint Icara said. “Now tell me, what do you want?”

Ophelia bowed her head and began to plead her case. “The Inertial Monks were inexcusably offended by the Coventium Europe, and-”

“No,” Saint Icara said, cutting off Ophelia with a wave of her hand. “I care not for the interpersonal squabbles of the Inertial Monks and Adalians.”

“The…?” Serine felt dumb asking, but a look from Ophelia confirmed that she didn’t know the term either. “The witches?”

“Oh, right. That is what you call them.” Saint Icara leaned back, watching the monks with her golden eyes. “I will not get involved in a conflict like that. Any other Saint worth their halo would not either.”

“But the witches broke the Seventh Day Accords,” Ophelia began, confusion touching her voice. “Are the Saints not troubled by that?”

“Saints do not officially count as a Party to the Accords,” Saint Icara drawled. “Just witches and monks. Saints, Alchemists, others in between… we are held to your rules despite not being recognized by them. It is… silly, to say the least. A cause for grievances, to say more.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That you monks should take care to know to whom you speak,” Saint Icara said. “Do not make foolish, insensitive remarks like expecting a Divine being to care about mortal rules that are resented in the first place.”

“My apologies, Saint Icara.” Ophelia clasped her hands together and bowed her head, Serine mirroring the action. “I was careless with my tongue.”

“Humans often are,” Saint Icara mused. “Do you wish to know why else I will not get involved in this conflict? You may have two reasons to report back to your master. The first reason relates back to an old fable, of Olivia and Muriel, the cosmic women. Have you heard it? It is, perhaps, my favorite tale.” Without waiting for either monk to respond, Saint Icara began her story. 

 

“Long ago, there was OLIVIA. She was like the SUN, full of LIGHT and PURPOSE, and the universe thought her GOOD. Olivia grew lonely one day, for the universe was still new, so she crafted herself a friend from the stars, the bird ARA. Olivia and Ara spent many days together, until one day Ara could not be found anywhere.” As Saint Icara spoke, the nebulae around the trio morphed, ghostly images of the narrative barely forming within the clouds of dust and light. “Olivia searched for Ara for three days and three nights, but the bird was lost to her. Olivia was not alone though, for at the end of her search Olivia found MURIEL. MURIEL was like the MOON, composed of REFLECTIONS and CHANGE, and the universe knew that Muriel too was GOOD. The pair spent lifetimes together, and the universe smiled upon them. Every day, Olivia would look at Muriel and say, “How lucky am I that I found you, for you are my light and my life, and I love you so.” As the days went on though, Olivia grew weary of saying the same thing over and over to her love. She worried that Muriel would tire of her. So Olivia began to INVENT, forging GIFTS to find new ways to convey her endless love. Some gifts Olivia gave QUICKLY, other gifts arrive to Muriel much more SLOWLY. But Olivia ensures that every gift eventually winds up with her wife. Olivia created new CREATURES for Muriel to laugh at, and Olivia invented new LANGUAGES with which she could speak her mantra of love. God may create a being, but Olivia breathes DIVERSITY and JOY into God’s creations, making tweaks and edits to her delight. Everything Olivia does overjoys Muriel, and the two are eternally happy together. Olivia makes Muriel endless gifts, endless tokens of an undying LOVE, and Muriel guards them carefully for ETERNITY.”

 

“We are all children of love,” Saint Icara said. “And for that reason I refuse to fight here. I shall not sully my purpose.”

Ophelia and Serine exchanged a look. They hadn’t exactly expected a fable to be thrown at them, but they both understood that Saint Icara would not be moved on this decision. “I wish you could join us, but I understand why you do not.”

“And understanding is the most critical step,” Saint Icara declared, giving Ophelia a patronizing clap.

“You said though, that you had two reasons for us?”

Saint Icara leaned back, her face going blank as she let thought overtake her. “I gave up immortality for this, did you know?” Seeing the monks shake their heads, Saint Icara went on. “Every Saint is required to make a sacrifice to God, something to prove their dedication. I was desperate to get this halo, to do good in the world, in part because so few fae ever get the chance to become Saints. We are, as a people, remarkably selfish.” Saint Icara paused to ensure Ophelia and Serine were listening to her story. For a supposedly humble Divine Saint, Saint Icara certainly liked to have attention. “I had lived for ages and ages when I was Called, so I sacrificed my immortality to God. I reasoned that I was to live for less than a hundred years and be able to do good with those few decades, then that was better than many centuries more of doing nothing at all. Not long after my declaration and ceremony of sacrifice, an angel delivered my halo to me. I have never looked back and regretted my decision, despite all that I have seen. I sound like an old woman rambling, but I am telling you children, and to me you are children, something very important. I have watched empires rise and fall. With my Sight, and the limited Knowledge granted to me by the Powers That Be, I can tell you two that this precious little war is a drop in the ocean compared to real strife. And real strife is not too far off. There is good in the world that stands like a candle to the hurricane that faces it. There are choices that must be made in the not so distant future that will be uncomfortable, to say the least. There will be challenges to conventions long held firm, and no change ever goes seamlessly. And that is where I will be needed most.” Saint Icara’s eyes narrowed, as if she were looking at something distant, and it occurred to Ophelia that she might very well be Seeing something.

“Will we see you again, Saint Icara?” There was a hopefulness to Serine’s voice that Ophelia found endearing, but she also detected a layer of weariness. The Saint no doubt did too.

“I shall certainly see you two again,” Saint Icara prophesied, the orb on her staff glowing slightly. “But there are no guarantees that you shall see me. There are so few guarantees at all these days. But our paths will cross again.” Saint Icara waved her staff and the cosmos fell away, seemingly melting down the monks’ senses, until at last they stood once again in the barn. Not a moment seemed to have passed. “I will walk you to the edge of my territory,” Saint Icara said with a nod, placing the hat back on her head.

“May I ask, Saint Icara, what act granted you your calling to become a Saint?”

“Oh,” Saint Icara laughed, flashing those too-sharp teeth. “You are looking at it.” She waved her hand around her, at the fields of pear trees.

“You…” Ophelia trailed off, an unpleasant and mildly horrifying thought crossing her mind.

“I feed the hungry,” Saint Icara said. “I use my magics to fuel the earth and pump out pears year-round. And I own many other farms that do similar work.”

“But you’re fae,” Ophelia breathed. “The food...” Ophelia trailed off, and Saint Icara gave her an unreadable look.

“I have saved thousands from starvation and malnutrition,” Saint Icara stated. “The pears are anonymously donated and distributed via charities I started to all over the state, and to some parts of Nevada. That is how I earned my halo.”

“But…” Serine couldn’t finish the thought, unsure how to proceed without offending the Saint.

“Which is more compelling,” Saint Icara mused, “to do quantifiable good and stand at the precipice of evil, or to do nothing at all and let nature run its course? I have never harmed a soul, and I do not foresee myself harming anyone. We are all capable of evils, but I have never abused the power in my hand. Should I not be trusted?”

“I don’t know, gracious Saint.” Ophelia shook her head, one step from crossing out of Icara’s territory. Linking hands with Serine, the Monks in Blue carefully stepped directly from Icara’s territory to the warp rune they had drawn before entering the farmlands. With a flash they were gone, off to meet a woman named Miranda. Saint Icara just watched them go, a slight frown pulling at her face as she traced a finger over pointed ears. She picked and bit into a pear, too sharp teeth cleaving the fruit near in half. And oh, how sweet it was.


	10. Miranda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eden gets a visitor, and there are cracks in the facade.

Leas Miranda Nguyen was supposed to be having brunch with her friends right now. Her succulent needed to be watered sometime soon. In three days it was her grandmother’s birthday; Miranda really needed to call her and sing for her, just like she did every year. Miranda needed to go ahead and get an antidepressant prescription refilled, because she knew that if she didn’t get the refill sooner rather than later, her motivation to get the medicine, or do anything, would drastically fall. Miranda needed to finish her thesis on the San Andreas fault, and she needed to draft a letter to Matriarch Quixival of the Coventium America. But Miranda couldn’t do any of those things right now. She was stuck in a dungeon, chained to a wall, being watched by the same woman who had taken her from her home.

The Inertial Monks had entered Miranda’s house a while before she got home. It was impossible to know how long, but it was obvious that they knew what the battleground would be. They didn’t exactly ambush her, which surprised Miranda just a little bit. She had expected the monks to be cowards, attacking her while she was unprepared. Granted, she also expected the monks to kill her. That was how war normally worked, Miranda thought. Then again, there was a lot Miranda didn’t know. Today was just full of surprises. Her door had been locked, and all the lights were just as she had left them. There were no obvious wrinkles on any seats nor were there any new plates in the sink or any books out of order on her shelves. Miranda, quite honestly, hadn’t known that she wasn’t alone until the monks had just stepped out of her bedroom and asked her to come with them. Well, told her to come with them. When Miranda resisted, that was when they truly grabbed her.

She had screamed, of course, and runes dimly glew on the wall where they were no doubt absorbing the sound. The monks were so considerate, trying to protect the neighborhood from the sounds of her kidnapping. After they had raised their hoods the monks were cloaked; it had been hard to keep track of anything more than a vague blue blur. Miranda had read once that the battle robes of an Inertial Monk were blessed and enchanted, and concealment charms must have been in there somewhere. Miranda hadn’t been able to put up a fight, she was embarrassed to admit. She had actualized her batons and fired one blast of percussive magic before she had been knocked over by a blast of sand that chafed her leg to hell. The woman had raised a long-sleeved arm, and then the world had gone fuzzy. Everything had just gone fuzzy for a while and nothing made sense. Miranda had been moved, but she didn’t know where. She didn’t really know where she was now, but she could make an educated guess. The Inertial Monks operated out of the Holy Crystal City of Eden, from which they preserved the natural order of the world. This was just their dungeon. Because of course, they had a dungeon. So here she was, with a woman before her.

The monk was pretty, in a lonely sort of way. A pale hand played with a braid; Miranda couldn’t be sure what color the woman’s hair was, because the majority of it was braided back behind her and the few strands Miranda could see were in shadows. Intelligent green eyes scanned Miranda, shining out despite the darkness. “Are you comfortable?” Her voice was soft and accented just a touch, unlike anything Miranda had heard before: somewhere between posh British and lyrical Arabic. When Miranda stayed silent, the woman frowned. “My name is Ophelia. I know this is all a little much to take in all at once.”

“You think?”

“Yes. Now I’m sorry to repeat myself, but are you comfortable?”

“I’m chained to a fucking wall.”

“Yes, we were a little bit worried that you would try to do something terribly drastic attack us. I told them I didn’t think it would be a concern, but my fellow monks didn’t want to take any chances. But, I suppose if we’re the only ones here...” Ophelia raised a sleeved hand, and with a slight pop Miranda’s chain unlocked. “Better?”

“Better.” Miranda rubbed her wrist, hating how easily Ophelia talked to her. It was demeaning, somehow. Miranda was unquestionably a prisoner with no way to escape, yet Ophelia was treating and talking to Miranda like she was a friend. Like they were just two chums having a nice, normal conversation. But nothing about this was nice or normal. “Your name, Ophelia, like in  _ Hamlet _ ?”

“Hamlet?”

“Shakespeare?”

Ophelia shook her head, offering Miranda a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know it.”

“You talk like Shakespeare. Funny accent and everything.”

“Funny? I never thought I had much of an accent.”

Miranda crossed her arms, trying to make herself as small as possible, as if by becoming insignificant enough the monk would leave. “Well, you do.” It didn’t matter how familiar or kind the monk sounded. She had kidnapped Miranda. And while making fun of her accent probably wasn’t the best way to get treated well, Miranda wanted to take a shot. Wanted something to make her feel powerful.

“Please don’t say that,” Ophelia said, putting up a hand as if to block Miranda’s presence.

“What?”

“You said that I kidnapped you. Please don’t say that, or at least don’t say it out loud. It’s so much more unkind than what happened. The Order just needs your skills and expertise for a few weeks, then you’ll be free to go. We’re not villains.”

Miranda flushed, embarrassed that all her thoughts hadn’t stayed inside her head. Then she frowned, trying to figure out what Ophelia meant. “My skills? What skills? I don’t…” Oh. It clicked. “Oh Jesus. What are you planning?”

“I don’t know,” Ophelia admitted, hand worrying her braid at a frantic pace. It was the one and only sign of her anxiety, but it was more than enough. “I just know that the Arch Sophisticate requested you by name.” Ophelia looked as if she was ready to say more, but she was cut off by a gentle knock outside the cell. A man entered, carrying a tray of food. “You again,” Ophelia said, sounding surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually see the same servant twice.” Ophelia left with a nod towards the servant, sparing Miranda one last look over her shoulder. Miranda wasn’t sure what the look was supposed to mean.

“Your food,” the man said softly. He struck Miranda as the type of man who said everything said softly. Soft and sad, drowning in soft grey robes. Miranda ate quickly, although there wasn’t really enough food to savor. Rice and beans and a cabbage slaw. Just enough proteins and nutrients to keep her mind sharp and her body functioning.

“Thank you.” Miranda meant it. Little as it was, the tray was more than she had expected. For one glorious moment, Miranda had hope that her stay here wouldn’t be an unbearable misery. That Ophelia hadn’t lied, and that Miranda would return to her regular life sooner than she thought. Then, a Monk in Yellow entered the cell, a needle clutched in one hand and a vial of ink in the other. And just like that, hope was lost.

“Restrain her,” said the monk. “I need her upper back.” Eyes wide, Miranda knew she couldn’t fight. She had neither the ability or circumstance. So she let the soft, sad man restrain her with an unexpected strength, and she did not flinch as the tattooing began.

* * *

 

“I think we scared her,” Ophelia said casually. She and Serine were on the promenade around the fortress, watching the clouds move across the sky.

“Does it matter if we scared her?”

“I think if we want her to help us so badly, we at least need to be kind to her.”

Serine shrugged, drumming his fingers along the promenade railing. “She’ll probably help either way. The Arch Sophisticate doesn’t frivolously summon people. I’m sure whatever the situation is, she’ll be compelled to help.”

“Compelled by her intrinsic motivation, or compelled by the Arch Sophisticate?”

Serine frowned, closely monitoring Ophelia's face. Her tone was wrong, somehow, in the way she had said that. Not bad, necessarily, but wrong. “Why would you ask that? Or say it like that? The Arch Sophisticate is a good man, Ophelia. You almost make it sound like he’s forcing her. But to that point, at the end of the day, even if she is compelled, so long as Miranda does her duty to the greater good, does it matter whether she does so intrinsically?”

“I don’t know,” Ophelia admitted. “We… I mean you and I, but also the monks… Oh. I don’t want to think about it too much, any of it, because I’m afraid I won’t like the answers. But that fear by itself makes me think that I need to get to the bottom of it all. Because we normally don’t like to run from good truths, only those that tell us something awful.” Ophelia hugged herself and said no more, a small sign that felt like a punch to Serine’s stomach. She was worried, and Serine was locked out. Ophelia was being paranoid, Serine knew. Over-worrying and letting thoughts run wild, something she was a little too prone to doing, and the very reason she kept such a carefree mask on all the time. Ophelia liked to believe that life was beautiful, and for the most part she was right. But in the moments where life wasn’t beautiful, when there were problems and anger and doubt, Ophelia clamped the mask on all the tighter, as if her buoyancy could lift her out of every trouble. Sometimes she got through quickly. Other times it would take longer.

“Monks in Blue.” Olistene’s voice was like a knife through the tension.

“Monk in Yellow Olistene.” Serine nodded towards his fellow monk, while Ophelia offered a half-present smile.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but the Arch Sophisticate has given us a task.” Olistene’s mouth pulled for a moment as if she had swallowed something bitter, but in an instant it was gone, and she gave no further signs of any discontent. “You two are to escort me to the nation state of Lon-Bay. We are to meet with Sae Simon and investigate whether or not the city has become a risk to itself and to the world’s balance.” From the depths of her yellow robes Olistene produced two thick packets of paper, no doubt containing information for the assignment. “What do you two know about Lon-Bay?”

“It’s an island archipelago in the Pacific Ocean,” Ophelia supplied, “ruled by a Sae, a form of appointed king.”

“And the whole archipelago sits on a ley line.” Serine frowned at Olistene and Ophelia’s incredulous looks. “What? I have decent geography knowledge.”

“You’re both right,” Olistene said with a nod. “And the ley line is of considerable importance, so I’m glad you’re aware of that. The rest of the information you need is in the packet, so give those a good looking over tonight. We leave after dinner tomorrow, so make sure everything is in order before then.”

It took Serine a moment to ensure that he had heard the senior monk correctly. “That’s… soon.”

Olistene shrugged with a lot less casual indifference than she was trying to project. “We were given an unfortunate time table to begin with, and several events outside our control have worsened it still. It’s the best we have. You two will be ready?”

“Of course,” Ophelia said. “Serine and I are always excited for some form of adventure, aren’t we?” She smiled at Serine with a radiance that didn’t quite make it to her eyes. The mask was back on, and painted with the widest smile Ophelia could manage. Serine couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not.


	11. A Scherzo by the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inertial Monks get the tropical dream vacation they've always dreamed of, except the trouble on the horizon's a little more than a bad spot of rain.  
> \---  
> In the interest of full disclosure, I am not Polynesian. I am actually pretty closed to land locked, and can count on one hand the number of times I've been to the ocean. Lon-Bay is an entirely made up nation, and that gives me some liberties, but I recognize there are pre-existing countries with rich histories, and I don't want to exploit or appropriate that. I've done some research before jumping in, but I recognize that my research is far from comprehensive. Long story short, if you are more knowledgeable than I about islands or Polynesia/Oceania, and I do something dumb/you have suggestions to help me improve my narrative, please reach out to me! I am more than willing to rewrite swathes of story if it means not being an ignorant fool. Thanks so much, I hope you enjoy!

The people of Lon-Bay really liked circles, Serine thought. Every building in sight seemed to be round, with uniquely mosaiced domes topping each building. Streets ran in rings, and even the fountains were carved in series of half or full spheres. And the sun, the people’s love of the sun couldn’t be understated. Icons and carvings of the sun were everywhere, if the monks only looked hard enough to find them. Other than the fondness for circles and sunlight, the nation state was exactly how Ophelia described it, only impossibly more idyllic. 

Lon-Bay was a small series of islands ruled by the appointed king, the Sae. There were six or seven little islands, of which only four or five were used by humans. The chain ran from the southwest to the northeast, along the ley line that ran beneath the earth and across the air, through the very energy of the world. The most northeast island, aptly named Sae, was comprised entirely of the palace, a sprawling thing of overlapping towers and domes, where Sae Simon, his Triad, and the royal families lived. It was in front of this palace that Olistene waited, flanked by Ophelia and Serine, who were to pose as Olistene’s bodyguards and servants for this trip. The furthest south-west island was what the people of Lon-Bay called the  _ Gai-Fin _ , and it was there that they sent their dead. The central and largest island was named Mettra, and it was home to the three largest cities in Lon-Bay, with two smaller cities and a good scattering of towns interspersed through dense forest. This island had had a majority of the commerce, the only port in the nation, as well as the majority of the population. To the southeast was a much smaller island, a lush paradise of forest and jungle named Bon’ji, and it was here that all the non-royal elite and upper crust of Lon-Bay made their home. The other islands were dotted with towns and covered in lush jungle, though nothing as magnificent as that of Bon’ji.

All this had been included in the information packet Serine and Ophelia had been given yesterday. But words alone couldn’t prepare them for the sheer majesty of the archipelago. It was, in a single word, stunning, and no length of sentences could ever convey the fact better than the single word.

“Now remember,” Olistene said quietly, “you two are my servants. Not Inertial Monks. Be mindful, and remember that without your belts you risk harming yourself if you try to draw upon magic. You’re weakened; don’t do anything rash.” Once again Olistene rapped against the door of the watchtower before them. The watchtower stood several hundred yards away and across a ravine from the gate of the palace, and a vassal had disappeared within the building nearly a half hour ago, promising to open the gate and extend the bridge at once.

“Where did the prick go?” Serine’s voice was a coarse whisper of annoyance, growing increasingly frustrated by the vassal’s inability to do anything quickly.

“Manners,” Olistene said curtly. “We are about to be received by Sae Simon, the Gai King of Lon-Bay.”

“Say that ten time fast,” Serine whispered to Ophelia. She didn’t smile back. The vassal’s face appeared at the watchtower’s window, and a moment later the bridge extended, the two halves meeting in the middle of the ravine. “Finally,” Serine said unkindly.

“Here we go,” Olistene said. The trio moved together, silent across the bridge. As soon as they had crossed the midway point the bridge began to retract, once again exposing the ravine and the steep plunge into the ocean below.

The palace was as gorgeous as the land it oversaw, built to evoke nothing but thoughts of the sun and the sea. Each of the hundreds of windows were speckled with something golden, creating a dazzling kaleidoscope effect in the halls. The high ceilings were topped with frescoes and full murals depicting moments in Lon-Bay’s history. The crowning of the first Sae, resplendent in sunlight. The First War of Isolation, painted in greens and purples and bloody reds. The first Sun Celebration. The rejection of diplomats. The Great Despair, and the subsequent Second War of Isolation. The Day of Memories at  _ Gai-Fin _ .

“Your palace is gorgeous,” Olistene said to the servant leading them down the hall.

“Thank you,” the servant said. “Lon-Bay aims to please.” Tapestries began to line the wall, depicting a series of individuals. Some were very young, and others were wrinkled with age. Some faces seemed to repeat, suggesting family, while others looked completely unrelated to any of the other figures Many wore the traditional Lon-Bay  _ sax _ , and all wore the same crown.

“Are these the past Saes?”

Once again, the docent nodded. “These depict Lon-Bay. All of these tapestries are handwoven upon Lon-Bay’s death, depicting Lon-Bay at their most powerful.”

“They’re gorgeous,” Ophelia murmured. It was the first time Serine had heard her speak since they had arrived.

The party stopped before a stone door, the servant turning to face the Inertial Monks. “You are about to enter the throne room of Lon-Bay: Sae Simon, resplendent, the Gai King; he who is kind and wise. Are you prepared?”

“If the Sae is, then we are as well.”

The docent bowed before knocking upon the heavy stone door. As the door slid open, the servant entered, heralding the guests at full volume. “To you, Lon-Bay,” the servant announced, “allow me to present the honorable Monk in Yellow Olistene, representative of the Grand Order of Inertial Monks, hailing from the sacred Crystal City of Eden, and the honorable Inertial Monk’s two servants.” Olistene boldly strode into the throne room, followed by a much less confident Serine and Ophelia.

The throne room was a microcosm for the entire palace. The roof, impossibly high and domed, depicted an incredible sun dawning over the Sae and his court. Massive stained glass windows lined the room and were propped open in various places to allow a light breeze into the room, gently moving the massive wind chime that hung like a chandelier from the ceiling. The throne and its dais were carved from red stone, and white flowers provided a stark contrast from where they were scattered upon the steps of the throne’s dais. Three women lounged upon the stairs leading up to the throne, each dressed in a  _ sax _ . The oldest woman sat with perfect posture, knitting needles flashing between her fingers. The youngest woman was completely and casually sprawled on the steps, looking the perfect picture of extravagant ease with a flower between her fingers.

“Simon isn’t here,” the young woman abruptly said, dropping the flower. She certainly didn’t seem to feel as if she needed to wait for the servant to say anything. “I think he’s by the sea.”

“By the sea?” The docent blinked. “We are on an island.”

“The beach then, probably the south beach right off the city.” The woman groaned, her back audibly popping as she leaned forward. “My name is Anna. The elderly woman is Genevene, and the middle aged woman is Patricia.”

Olistene regarded the woman before her, lip curling slightly. “Who are you?”

Anna rolled her eyes, ignored the slight, and did not rise to the bait. “We are the Triad of Advisors to Sae Simon, resplendent.” Anna placed her hands on her hips, smiling as Olistene nodded her head in respect to the sitting woman. Serine wondered how hard it was for Olistene to put aside her acid tongue out of deference to the young advisor. Anna pulled out a cell phone from her  _ sax _ , typing a quick message before miraculously tucking it away somewhere. “I told Lon-Bay that you two are here, although I don’t know when you’ll get an audience. Simon’s been flaky recently.”

“Show respect to Lon-Bay,” Patricia said, voice stern. “Show respect to Sae Simon, resplendent.”

“He will forgive her,” Genevene said mildly. “I am sure we have much larger concerns than whether or not Anna uses his full title. An Inertial Monk would not come here for any trivial problem.”

“I would not start by declaring anything a problem,” Olistene said, “but it has come to our attention that the world is disharmonious in and around Lon-Bay. I cannot say much more without being in the presence of the Sae, but have you noticed anything amiss lately?” The Triad exchanged looks but said nothing. Serine filed that away, and knew Ophelia had too.

“I am sure the Sae will be available soon,” Patricia said, rising from her place on the stairs. “Until then, I will show you to your rooms. Please, follow me.” She led the trio out of the door, not turning to see if the monks were following.

“Remind me later to tell you about something I noticed,” Serine whispered to Ophelia. She stayed silent, but nodded. Patricia walked at an incredibly swift pace, not unkindly, but because she had places to be and couldn’t afford to dally. Luckily Olistene moved in much the same way, and both Serine and Ophelia were no strangers to quick paces.

“Please refrain from wandering around the palace,” Patricia said with a shake of her head. “Lon-Bay is happy to host you, honored to host you, but we cannot allow strangers, even those of such standing, to roam around the second heart of our power and rule.”

“The second heart?” Olistene inclined her head. “What is Lon-Bay’s primary heart?”

“The people,” Patricia replied without missing a beat. “And Gai.”

“Gai,” Olistene questioned. “That’s a local word, correct? I’ve heard it used in respect to the Sae, though I confess I don’t know what it means.”

Patricia smiled, stopping in front of a door. “It is a local word, an ancient word, first defined by our seafaring ancestors to describe the energy of the sea and islands. It has, with time, taken on more meanings than I can explain to you. I am sure that if you live here and learn here, and spend time with the heart of Lon-Bay, that you will come to understand Gai more and more.” Patricia stood completely still for a moment, her smile falling. She idly adjusted a flower on her  _ sax _ , not looking at any of the monks. “I was instructed to tell you that while guests of Lon-Bay, you are not to intervene in any of our matters. You are custodians and guardians of the earth, but you must remember that Sae Simon, resplendent, is the earth. His word is final, and so long as you stay here you are subject to him. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, you are to remain subservient to Lon-Bay and let us deal with our own affairs. Good night.” Patricia walked back towards the throne room without another word, long hair swinging as she left. That was another thing the Inertial Monks had noticed; the people of Lon-Bay, or at least those in the palace, didn’t seem to ever cut their hair.

“The culture here is funny,” Serine said when he was sure the monks were alone.

“Funny is not the right word. Different, definitely, but just because something is different does not make it inherently bad or funny.”

“I didn’t mean it derisively,” Serine defended. “Just funny. Like the long hair, and how they call both the nation and the Sae ‘Lon-Bay.’ That’s what I noticed,” Serine said towards Ophelia. Still, Ophelia said nothing. Serine frowned at his partner, not wanting to say anything in front of Olistene. It was probably futile; Olistene had no doubt picked up on Ophelia’s silence by now. But while it was one thing for Olistene to realize this on her own, it was another thing entirely for Serine to actually confront Ophelia about it in front of the other monk. Some things just weren’t done.

Olistene drummed her fingers on the doorframe, struck by a sudden realization. “You two won’t be able to understand what they say in Gailin.” Serine and Ophelia blinked, both wondering how they could have missed such an obvious problem. Olistene’s belt would translate any usage of Lon-Bay’s native tongue, but Serine and Ophelia would be left in the dark. On the other hand, this arrangement technically gave the monks the upper hand in terms of secret keeping. In the letters and arrangements leading up to the Inertial Monks’ arrival, the Sae had made it clear that he did not want a translator, and that a neutral language would be used for the meeting. Fortunately, the Order had designed its academy to teach each acolyte the three most used languages on Earth, whatever they may be. That meant that in addition to Eden’s local dialect, the Inertial Monks could negotiate in Mandarin, English, and Spanish. The Sae had happily settled on English for the meeting, as nearly all of his court was proficient in the language. In terms of secret keeping though, the situation meant that Olistene could pass of information to her “servants” in secret, while the Sae had to speak carefully around his guest.

“I suppose we’ll just have to adapt. It’s what we do, isn’t it? I’m sure it won’t be too hard; if anything we’ll just end up learning a new language. The horror! Learning!” Ophelia laughed, rolling her eyes as if her sudden outburst wasn’t a complete departure from the totality of her behavior until this point. “Oh, don’t you worry one little bit Olistene. It’ll all work out marvelously. It’s in the cards, I can feel it.”

Serine saw Ophelia shift yet said nothing. There wasn’t anything to be said, not yet. And certainly not in front of Olistene. The three ate a dinner of fish and taro, with tea being provided afterwards to “settle the palate.” After dinner was done and gone, Serine found himself alone with his thoughts as he undressed for the night. Sometimes, the alone time scared him. Sometimes the alone time was fun, a nice reprieve from the stresses of others. Tonight, Serine was firmly settled on a feeling that wasn’t quite empty, but was more the absence of any strong emotion. He simply had no expectations as to how this trip would go. Perhaps the Inertial Monks would deal with a problem, perhaps not. Maybe Ophelia would come out of the shell that she had suddenly built around herself. Maybe not, though Serine suspected she would. People like Ophelia didn’t tend to stay introverted and moody for long, at least in Serine’s experience. Serine was confident that he was overthinking everything though, and he laughed at himself a little bit as he positioned himself in bed. His last thoughts were of the sounds of the waves, and how peaceful the gentle whisper of the wind was. Lon-Bay would be a good place to get away to, Serine was sure. Nothing at all like miserable Florence.


	12. Birdsong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inertial Monks awaken on their first morning in Lon-Bay.

Ophelia woke up to sunlight streaming over her. Birds perched on the open window, birds she had never seen before in her life. They were green and yellow, with curved beaks that didn’t quite shut, allowing Ophelia to hear the gentle push and pull of their breath. The birds flew off as Ophelia dragged herself out of bed, padding on bare feet across the room to a wardrobe. Ophelia presumed that the bags she and Serine had been hauling yesterday were still sitting where they had left them last night: in the living room that connected the three guest rooms the monks inhabited. Ophelia couldn’t imagine that any of the Sae’s servants would have messed with the monks’ stuff or moved it anywhere, and one look out of her door confirmed that the bags were still sitting exactly where deposited. Ophelia did kick herself a little, knowing it was reckless to leave those bags out in the relative open with the Monk in Blue robes and belts inside, unprotected. But at the same time Ophelia didn’t really want those robes, those pauldrons, that belt in her room. So Ophelia turned back to the wardrobe in her room.

Ophelia hadn’t really expected anything to be inside the closet. These were guest rooms ready to host anyone meeting with the Sae, so the wardrobes almost definitely would stand empty, ready for any guest to put his or her own clothes inside. Instead, Ophelia was surprised to see an assortment of cloth hanging inside the wardrobe once she pulled the door open. To the left was a  _ sax _ , the traditional clothes of Lon-Bay’s court. A  _ sax _ was in two parts: springy, silky reeds were woven together into a top that fit snug to the torso, starting at the armpit and going to the navel, at which point the weave broke apart and the reeds flowed freely around the waist. Also at the waist began the second part of the outfit, which was a knee length skirt of flowering vines, with much larger ornamental flowers positioned throughout. There were no shoes to go with the  _ sax _ , though Ophelia wasn’t sure if that was intentional or not. On the other side of the closet were huge squares of patterned fabric that Ophelia couldn’t make heads or tails of, so she decided to leave those as they are. Deciding to leave clothes as a concern for later, Ophelia pulled on a robe and headed to the baths. She passed Serine in the living room, already dressed in his tan robes. His booted feet anxiously bounced in place as he watched Ophelia pass, though he said nothing. It was for the best. Ophelia would talk to him later, when she was more awake. That was the condition she set for herself, at least.

Ophelia had spotted what looked like a bathing room on her walk to the guest rooms last night, but she quickly realized that she had no idea where anything in this palace was. Remembering Patricia’s request-- her order, rather-- for the monks not to wander around the palace, Ophelia stood in indecision outside the suite’s door. She was saved, however, by the sight of a servant walking down the hall in a bathrobe, her hair wet.

“Pardon me, pardon!” Ophelia quickly walked up the servant, offering her a cheery smile and a wave. “Which way did you come from? Where is the bathing room?” The servant blinked at Ophelia and pointed behind her, down the hall towards the back portion of the palace. “Ah, thank you!” Ophelia shook the woman’s hand profusely before striding down the hallway indicated to her, the path relatively straight forward. The hallway did diverge into two at one point though, giving the monk pause. Ophelia guessed as best she could, going right, and she quickly came to a solitary door at the end of a hall. Assuming this must be her destination, Ophelia opened the door and immediately began to fight vertigo. The floor beneath her ran for about three feet before giving way to the stone of the island upon which the palace was built. Two more feet from that was a steep, unforgiving plunge into the ocean-- far steeper than any other slope Ophelia had seen so far, and too steep to ever have built a palace above. Looking up and around, Ophelia saw that it seemed as if this entire portion of the palace had been ripped off of the island by a giant’s hands, some of the island having gone with it. There was no sign of an explosion and no even break, there was just palace until there wasn’t. What remained of before seemed luxurious though, and Ophelia wondered what this room might have been before it was dropped into the sea. Quickly but quietly shutting the door, Ophelia resolved to ask someone about the room just as soon as she could come up with an excuse as to why she had been in a forbidden part of the palace.

Tracing her way back down the hallway, Ophelia took the left path instead of the right, and was quickly able to pick up on the sound of running water and conversation. All the laughter and chatter died as Ophelia entered the bathing room, a dozen pairs of eyes turning to the monk. The room was full of women, which reassured Ophelia, but they were all obviously servants. And no one was quite sure how to proceed. Ophelia was, as far as the people of Lon-Bay knew, a servant to an Inertial Monk. But on the other hand, Ophelia was a guest, and guests did not typically use the servant facilities. But as she stood there, increasingly awkward, Ophelia tried and failed to come up with a reason as to why she shouldn’t just stay with all these seemingly lovely women. So she didn’t leave. Communal bathing. Ophelia could get through this. The women whispered amongst themselves as Ophelia undressed and lowered herself into the water, lathering soap between her hands.

One servant, sharing anxious glances with her coworkers, waded over to where Ophelia was furiously trying to remove a knot from her hair. “Why here?”

Ophelia blinked; the question was simple enough. “I was lonely with my friends, and I wanted to find others.” An honest answer to a simple question. The servant nodded, and returned to her fellows to discuss more. Gailin reminded Ophelia of birdsong somehow, with its points and flow. But that may just be Ophelia’s own foreign-ness speaking. She was fully aware that she was the outsider, the guest and intruder to Lon-Bay’s history. Ophelia felt like that more and more, especially when she was on a mission, that acute feeling that she was just a temporary observer looking through the window. She had just never expected to feel that with Serine. Never while wearing the robes of the Monk in Blue.

“Here for Lon-Bay? For Sae?” The servant hadn’t broken away from her group this time, she had simply called out to Ophelia from across the room. The monk didn’t mind. Ophelia was quickly gathering that this woman must be the most proficient English speaker, and as such the de facto communicator with Ophelia. The monk felt a pang of longing for her belt, for its translating capabilities, but she quickly pushed that from her mind.

“Yes,” Ophelia responded. “My master is meeting with him. Is he as great of a king as they say?”

The woman said something in Gailin to the others and everyone broke out in smiles, nodding their heads and rolling their eyes. “Yes, yes. He is handsome young Sae. Smart. Very good advisors too.” The woman said something else in Gailin and the room erupted into laughter. Ophelia wasn’t quite sure if they were laughing at her, but it seemed to be more positive than not.

“I’m excited to meet him,” Ophelia admitted. “I’ve never met a king before. Lots of important people, but never a king.”

“He has good head on his shoulders. Good in times like these.”

Ophelia paused, acutely aware of the bubbles sticking to her skin, washcloth poised above her arm. “Times like what?” The woman fell silent, and the bathroom quickly followed suit. The mood had perceptibly changed, though Ophelia wasn’t sure exactly why. Something had tipped into taboo, something that was to be known but not said. Perhaps the same thing that had drawn the attention of the Inertial Monks in the first place.

“Ask Lono,” the woman said at last. “He is of old ways. He knows. Gods are angry.  _ Gai _ is angry. Sae is meeting with Lono often, but…” The woman made a helpless gesture with her hands, words failing her. 

“I’m sorry,” Ophelia said softly. She meant it. A sorrow that stole words was a great sorrow indeed.

“It killed old Sae and husband,” the servant whispered bitterly. “Gone because we are too.” Ophelia didn’t say anything else after that, she just quickly rinsed the last of the soap off and dried herself. She left the servants’ bath without another word, leaving the women to each wipe tears from their eyes, each sure that it was merely water from the steam.

Olistene was pacing the floor of the suite when Ophelia returned, a scowl etched into her face. “The Sae won’t see us today,” she complained as Ophelia entered. “One of the Triad, Patricia, the one from last night, claimed that he had other meetings that were more important, more pressing. I would like to know what is more pressing than the arrival of Inertial Monks, but I suppose I will just have to let it be. Let it be. I don’t want to let it be. I have half a mind to enter that throne room now and demand an audience, does he have no shame? Inviting us here and then refusing to see us?”

In the back of her mind, Ophelia wondered if the Sae was meeting with Lono, discussing what went unspoken between the servants. “Did he invite us here?” Ophelia didn’t consciously think of the words, but as soon as they were out she was glad that they had been said.

“Of course. What are you saying?”

“That we invited ourselves, and the Sae accepted us without a choice.” Serine’s mouth tightened in the corner of Ophelia’s eye, not that she cared. He could resent her words, resent her, as much as he wanted. It didn’t change the truth of what she said. This was one of the many things Ophelia had been thinking about, one of the little truths that had begun to unearth themselves in her mind. One of the things that had made her silent. “We are here for a noble purpose, to help keep the world in balance, but we are still imposing.” Olistene and Ophelia locked eyes, the air between them tense. “We impose.”

“You two have the day off,” Olistene said at last. “Go explore Gate City, and report back to me if you find out anything useful about the Sae. Or if you discover anything about what called us here.” Olistene waved the pair off without another word, trusting them to be productive. There was far more to be done here. Correspondence to maintain, letters to write. Strings to be pulled as talks with the Sae drew nearer. Lon-Bay needed to be on Eden’s side. The question was just how much the nation would need to be convinced.


	13. Who Sits Upon the Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olistene finally meets the Sae and learns some valuable information.

Sae Simon read the dispatch. He read it again, then looked up at Anna. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Anna said. “This is the most comprehensive summary, but there are at least five surviving witnesses who have given similar reports.”

“And the three are in the palace?”

“In the Ambassador’s Suite.”

“I want them gone,” the Sae said, mostly to himself. “I know we cannot just kick them out, but I wish we could. I do not like this.”

“These are the ugly politics of being Sae,” Genevene said gently. “We have to entertain our guests, even when we do not want to.”

“Why are they even here?” If it came out more like a whine than intended, the Triad ignored it.

“I do not know,” Genevene said, “but I am sure they will get to it soon. That is why you made them wait. They will be impatient, and will make them play their cards and reveal their intentions sooner.”

Anna frowned. “We hope, at least.”

“They do not seem like murderers,” Patricia offered. “One of the servants, the man, seems a little stand-offish. The other servant just seems sad. The Monk, who can say? I am sure she is dangerous, if not all three of them.”

“We are all dangerous, in our own ways,” Genevene said, putting away her crochet hook. “Are we meeting with Lono again today?”

“No,” Patricia said, sighing the word. “He is spending the day in the city at rallies, garnering more support. We are going to have to make concessions to him, especially if his movement musters up someone who can challenge the throne. He is only getting more popular across the nation, winning over even long time loyalists; surely Genevene, even you must agree with him on some of his points.”

“I do,” Genevene said with a nod, “just as every citizen of Lon-Bay may agree with one of his points. That is what makes him dangerous, his universality. His charisma.”

“Good thing we have some of that for ourselves,” Anna said.

“I want to see the monk tomorrow,” Simon said softly. “We cannot keep putting her off.”

“You should see her today,” Anna countered. “We cannot allow her to craft a perfect lie. We have the facts, and we must press our advantage.”

“Fine. I will see her today, and discuss this report over dinner.” The Sae rose, smoothing his  _ sax _ . “I am going to get something to eat, but I will be right back.”

Anna looked up from her spot to the Sae. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No, I don’t want to trouble you with getting up,” Simon said, rolling his eyes. “I can make it to the kitchen and back without much trouble.”

“I don’t like letting you out of my sight,” Anna said with a frown.

“I know,” the Sae said softly. The Sae and his advisor had locked gazes, and Genvene and Patricia shared a look before breaking the chasm of silence that had sprung up between them.

“How do we want the throne room to look for our guest?”

Simon paused, chewing his lip. “Oh. Does it matter?”

“Yes, Lon-Bay.”

The Sae didn’t even need to look around the throne room. “Hm. Draw all the curtains, save for the windows behind me. Three braziers full of wet wood, I want smoke. And stop the chimes.”

“As you command, Lon-Bay.”

Genevene smiled, popping her knuckles. “We are going for the dramatic flair?”

Simon smiled, his first smile that day. “Always, Genevene.”

 

The servant found Olistene on the floor. The monk had slumped, hands pulling at her hair as tears slowly leaked from her eyes. Olistene was silent though, she never made a sound. The servant thought that particular detail was important, if this was all an elaborate alibi. It would be reported to the Triad. Olistene’s servants were out in the city again, as they had made their habit. Patricia had advised that they be confined to the palace in the next few days, and Lon-Bay was expected to make the official demand at dinner. He would be eating with his guests tonight.

“Esteemed Monk, the Sae will meet with you now.”

Olistene looked up, bleary eyes questioning the servant’s words. “Now?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I’ll be there in a just a little while.”

“No.” The servant offered a hand to Olistene, pulling her to her feet. “You have five minutes to get dressed, then you will come with me. The Sae waits for no one.”

If looks could kill, the servant would have been eviscerated by the look Olistene fixed upon him. “I’ll be ready in three.” Returning to her room, Olistene hit the wall before she could think. It hurt, maybe breaking a finger, but she hit the wall again. The letter had come this morning, and she had been a disaster since. There was no control here. There was just sitting. Waiting for more news. Serine and Ophelia didn’t know, Olistene realized. Finding a pen and a piece of paper, Olistene scrawled a message for the two. Thinking for a moment, Olistene placed the letter she had received that morning under her note. Finding her yellow robes, Olistene pulled them around her, buckling her belt and ensuring her pauldrons were on correctly.

Olistene emerged from her room brushing her hair out, all evidence of distress wiped from her face. The servant bowed to the monk, gesturing to the door. “Are you ready?”

“Yes… Yeah, I think so.” Olistene slipped the brush in her pocket and followed the servant through the palace. It was high time that the Sae met with her, but the timing was terrible. Deliberately terrible, if she had to guess. The Sae probably received the news today just as Olistene did, though she worried about any details that had been misrepresented in the Sae’s information. Olistene’s brows came together as she tried to anticipate how this meeting would go. They would be in the throne room, Olistene was sure. The Triad would be present, and probably several attendants. No, she amended, no attendants today. This would be too sensitive to let get out by word of mouth. Thinking back to the room itself, Olistene tried to anticipate where she would be stationed. In front, but at a distance. Not the center of the room, but probably head on. Oblique angles weren’t used for this sort of thing. Olistene bit her lip, hating how slowly her brain was moving. But everything was too much, she couldn’t compartmentalize like normal. She was stuck thinking and thinking and worrying and obsessing and she couldn’t get it together. Olistene nearly walked into the servant as he stopped in front of the throne room doors, turning back to the monk.

“Prepare yourself, for you are about to step into the throne room of Lon-Bay, of Sae Simon, the Gai King.” Turning back to the door, three prim knocks were placed on the stone slabs. As the doors creaked open, the servant stepped inside, bowing deeply. “To you, Lon-Bay,” the servant announced, “allow me to present the honorable Monk in Yellow Olistene, representative of the Grand Order of Inertial Monks, hailing from the sacred Crystal City of Eden.”

Olistene entered the room, quietly taking everything in. The room was mired in smoke as three braziers burned sweet-scented logs around the room. Light shone from behind the Sae’s throne, blinding Olistene and obscuring the Sae and his Triad. Nevertheless, Olistene bowed and sank to one knee.

“Inertial Monk in Yellow Olistene,” Anna called, “it is our divine and earthly privilege and pleasure to host you here.”

“We hope you find the counsel you seek,” said Patricia, “and that this meeting with Lon-Bay is as fruitful as can be achieved.”

“But be warned,” Genevene intoned, “we are not a court of lies and disrespect. Mind your tongue and tone.”

Olistene had to fight goosebumps as the three women spoke in unison, spoke with a voice that was beyond any harmony or echo. “By the grace and power of Gai, so help us and so guide us.”

“We pray,” said a male voice. It was soft, softer than she had expected the king to sound. Olistene kept her head down, fighting the urge to try to make out the king through the smoke. She kept kneeling, the position growing more and more uncomfortable as her knees pressed on the stone floor. After what felt like an eternity, the silence was once again broken by the Sae. “Rise, my guest.”

Olistene rose, finally looking at the ruler of this country, and couldn’t manage to keep her mouth from falling open. “Sae Simon, it is an honor,” she managed, trying not to completely lose her train of thought. “I eagerly look forward to what I am sure will be an illustrious partnership.”

“Perhaps,” Simon said, adjusting his  _ sax _ . “What do you want, Monk in Yellow? What brings you to my nation?”

Olistene nodded, easily slipping into her pitch. This was the easy part, well trodden and rehearsed. “The Inertial Monks are keepers of peace and order in the natural world since time unknown. We operate with the grace of God and a divine imperative; it is from one of His angels that we draw our power. In the name of peacekeeping, we are always looking to breach into new frontiers of magical theory and metaphysical learning. Lon-Bay is uniquely situated on a ley line, the Transpangenic Trawinski Vein, and I am here to plead the case of Inertial Monks to establish a small research center in your nation to study the ley line.”

“That’s it?” The Sae frowned, then switched to Gailin to speak to Genevene. “I thought this would be something big and important.” Olistene’s belt whispered to her, translating the king’s words, as he spoke. “This is hardly anything.”

“Act to your position,” Genevene admonished. Her Gailin sounded different, Olistene noticed, it was more flourished and lush than the king’s. “And be careful with what you say. I suspect this woman is going to trick us.”

Simon looked back to Olistene and resumed their dialogue in English as if the aside hadn’t happened at all. “Why would we allow you to come to our shores and do your research?”

“Because with the knowledge we could acquire here we could develop new forms of harmony with the world and better be able to conduct our mission.”

Simon’s hands drummed the arms of his throne, frowning at the monk. “But what benefit does this bring to Lon-Bay?”

“Glory,” Olistene said at once. “You would be internationally known for your contributions to the field of ley lines, a subject currently dramatically underrepresented in studies.”

“And?”

“We would compensate you,” Olistene said. “We can bring knowledge to your people, your magi, that has been held by the Inertial Monks for centuries. Eden is also far from a destitute nation, and I am sure that there is something in our vaults that would be of some value.”

Simon sat up in his throne, peering at Olistene with an unreadable expression. “I will consult with my Triad, this matter surely cannot be decided in a single meeting.”

“Of course,” Olistene said, bowing. “I am at your disposal at any moment, Sae Simon.”

Simon and Anna exchanged a look, and a smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “I will dine with you tonight,” the Sae announced. “I have other meetings today, so I trust that you will find something to occupy your time until then. Thank you, Monk in Yellow.”

“No, thank you.” Olistene bowed again and turned, glad to get her eyes out of the light. She hated feeling as if she were under a microscope, knowing that every movement and word was being carefully analyzed. By the Triad at least, Olistene had the distinct feeling that the Sae had missed many little cues that Genevene and Patricia had filed away.

“Monk in Yellow,” Simon’s voice was light, carrying out to Olistene’s ears, almost out of the room. “I am sorry for your losses.” Olistene went stock still, eyes widening slightly. He was a fool. Utterly so. Without another word or waiting to be escorted Olistene strode to her rooms, throwing open the door. Ophelia and Serine were in the room, the note crumpled in Serine’s fist.

“Olistene,” Ophelia whispered, “the Monks in Green…”

“It’s terrible,” Olistene agreed. “I told the Arch Sophisticate that it wouldn’t end well for us. At least it was in Australia, and the damage was contained.”

“You don’t sound too broken up about it,” Serine noted. His eyes were red, Olistene noted, though not so much as Ophelia’s. Olistene idly wondered if the Monks and Blue had been close to the Monks in Green, though it hardly mattered now.

“I’ve mourned for most of the morning,” Olistene said, “but we have other concerns now. I just had my first meeting with the Sae.”

“Without us?” Serine sounded incredulous. “The Sae is separating us.”

“You’re servants,” Olistene reminded. “Hardly necessary attendees to a high profile meeting.”

“Still,” Serine grumbled.

“But,” Olistene said, sitting down and arranging her robes. She seemed breathless, almost excited. “Something I learned today completely changes the game, and I’m not sure yet if it’s in our favor or not.”

“What?” Ophelia cocked an eyebrow. “What’s gotten you all in a tizzy?”

“The Sae,” Olistene said with a wolfish grin, “is a novice. New to politics, and I’d wager new to leadership. He’s just a teenager. We’re making deals with a child king.”

“Oh,” Ophelia said, dumbstruck. “That certainly changes a lot.”

“The Triad just became a lot more important,” Serine said. “He probably leans on them for a lot of guidance.”

“That was my thought,” Olistene said, “so it’s important we start trying to influence them as much as possible. We have dinner with all four, and others, tonight.”

“That will be interesting,” Ophelia said, turning to her room.

Olistene and Serine watched her go, only speaking when her door was safely closed. “Is something up with your partner?”

“Not that I know the reason for,” Serine said, “but something’s obviously going on. I can try to pry it out of her, or we can let it run its course. It’s killing me to see her like this though. Normally her downs last a few hours, a day at most. This is hanging over her like a cloud.”

“Clear those skies, Serine.” Ophelia stood abruptly, striding to her room. “We can’t afford disunity.” Without another word, Olistene closed her door, leaving Serine standing alone in the suite.

“You’re telling me,” Serine said to no one.


	14. Breaking Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sae has invited the Edonian delegation to dinner

“They sure do love taro here, don’t they?” Ophelia stood in front of the candle she had lit for the Monks in Green, intently watching the flame dance upon the wick. “Do you think we’ll have it for dinner tonight as well?”

“It’s a versatile food,” Serine said, sitting on the edge of Ophelia’s bed. “The leaves, the root, the skin. A lot can be done with them. I figure the Sae eats pretty well though; my guess is there’ll be some array of seafood, some taro, some rice, and fruits.”

“I’m tired,” Ophelia said softly, never looking away from the flame.

Serine shook his head slightly at the apparent disconnect in the conversation, but went along anyways. “Of the taro?”

Ophelia didn’t answer. “What time is dinner?”

Serine frowned at the second failure in a normal flow. This was unlike Ophelia. “Oh, later. We have a few hours. How do you plan to spend the time?” Again, Ophelia stayed silent. Her shoulders shrugged, and her hands twitched, but her mouth stayed closed and her eyes fixed upon the candle. It was too much. “Ophelia,” Serine pressed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I think we’re being played with,” Ophelia whispered.

“By whom?”

“By God.” Ophelia’s voice was nearly silent and completely earnest, forcing Serine to bite back a laugh.

Composing himself, grateful Ophelia’s back was to him, Serine continued. “God?”

“Don’t laugh,” Ophelia admonished. “But I have the most dreadful feeling that we’re being tossed by winds and pulled by strings that are out of our control. Olistene manipulates us, the Arch Sophisticate controls all of us, and he is commanded by even greater forces unknown.”

“Well,” Serine began, “that is the definition of hierarchy. That’s how the Order works; that’s how order works.”

“Maybe we need a little more chaos,” Ophelia said, fingers reaching out to the candle. Her fingertips would almost touch the flame, following the way it moved in an invisible wind. She wanted to grasp it, as if she could hold it and make it real. Ophelia wanted to be a Prometheus, harnessing fire before she burned down the world. “We’re overstepping,” Ophelia said. “We’re not protecting the natural world anymore, we’re trying to shape it. The ladybugs have become the gardeners.”

“Ladybugs?”

“Not my greatest comparison,” Ophelia demurred, “but you understand my point. They eat the aphids. So small, yet they protect the garden from parasites and pests.”

Serine stood, walking over to his fellow monk. “Ophelia, you’re being a little dramatic.” A hand met her shoulder. “I know you haven’t wanted to be here. Something happened, but I need you to tell me what. What has got you acting this way?”

Ophelia shifted, brushing Serine’s hand off. “I’m not acting any way.”

“You are,” Serine said, patience failing. There were many things on this earth that irked Serine. Raisins, people who talked over one another, and buttons that were attached with flimsy strings ranked highly on that list. But of the things Serine found intolerable, straight up lying about emotions was unforgivable. So his patience with Ophelia evaporated. He felt it was justified. “You’ve been acting strange since we met with Saint Icara,” Serine pressed. “Since we went out to America and came back, you’ve been phoning it in. Your head’s a million miles away and you’re miserable. It’s written all over that fake happiness you project whenever you think someone’s looking too closely. But I don’t have to look, Ophelia. I never have to look. I can read you without a glance, I can feel you and know you just as I know the sun on my skin when I step outside. Something is wrong.”

Ophelia was silent, watery eyes tracking the candle. Deftly, Ophelia reached out and pinched the wick, extinguishing the flame despite Serine’s shout of alarm. “You’re so inconceivably stupid,” Ophelia spat out. Her voice was even, her tone just on the hostile side of neutral. “I have never met another man so inept as you, so deaf or so blind or so foolish.” Serine wished she was screaming at him. He could rationalize screaming as irrational, just another way Ophelia was acting out, just like the way she twisted sentences into long, meandering paths to nowhere. But the way she spoke to him now, disinterestedly firm, cut him to the core. It hurt. “You don’t listen, Serine. I’ve been telling you what’s wrong since I first became miserable, but you don’t hear me. I don’t think you even could hear me if you wanted to. So just leave me until you can hear me. Until I’m done grieving for our fellow Monks, something neither you nor Olistene have seemed to take the time to do. Until I’ve worked out everything that I’ve been thinking about.”

“Like what?” It was the wrong thing to say. Ophelia spun, and a firm hand was placed on Serine’s chest. With a solid push Serine found himself on the ground, staring up at a firmly closed door.

Olistene looked up from her spot on the couch, gazing down on the floored Monk in Blue. “Trouble?”

“No, sometimes I just fall down,” Serine said as he rose.

“No need to get snarky,” Olistene tutted as she turned a page in her book. “So you didn’t get anywhere with Ophelia?”

“She’s stuck in her own head,” Serine sighed, sitting down. “She’s tangled up in too many thoughts. She’ll burn herself out, she always does.”

An eyebrow quirked. “She’s done this before?”

“Oh yeah. Something burrows into her head and stays there, and she just goes crazy while it festers. It’s never been like this before. She’s always bounced back, or the acting out has been more… shallow? I don’t know a good way to describe it.”

“Fascinating,” Olistene droned, turning another page. “Just ensure she doesn’t hurt herself. We all need to get back to Eden in one piece.”

“She won’t… she doesn’t hurt herself. She just unravels a little. So long as we keep making sure she bathes and eats, she’ll be fine.”

“That sounds like a job for you.”

Serine clicked his tongue, craning his neck to get a good look at the book Olistene was reading. Whatever it was, it must have been riveting; the Monk in Yellow barely looked away from the words, and the pages turned like clockwork. “What are you reading?”

“Erotica,” Olistene blandly replied.

“Really?”

“No.” Olistene huffed the word and lifted the book, revealing the cover. “It’s  _ El Mundo Sin Mentiras _ .”

“And it’s…”

“Social commentary, mostly. It was written by Luis Fernando Cruz, a Mexican author born into a prominent witch family. It’s his memoir of being raised in the culture of witches despite not being magical himself, and how he bridges the divides between the identities and obligations he has and the ones he’s expected to fulfill.”

“And it’s in Spanish?”

Olistene smiled, turning another page. “Entirely.”

“Why are you reading it?”

In what must have been nothing less than an act of God, Olistene put the book down. “Insight,” she stated, as if the single word revealed every secret of the universe.

“How so?”

“It’s written from a witch family’s perspective and it talks about their culture a lot. How families are set up, how their Senate functions. That in itself is valuable in terms of the war effort-- which we can all appreciate in the aftermath of Australia.” Serine nodded as Olistene continued. “The book is also philosophical, which I just enjoy reading. His prose is crisp and fluid, and he makes excellent points on the general meanings of life. Why are we here? What controls our fates? Are the individual kindnesses we bestow on the world worth the effort we put into them? He has entire chapters dedicated to the idea of small kindnesses versus major acts of benevolence, and how the two compare.”

Serine frowned. “That’s all well and good, but why is it titled ‘A World Without Lies’?”

“He thinks that’s the greatest kindness: the truth.”

“And what do you think about that?”

Olistene made a face as she opened the book back to her place. “I think it’s an interesting belief to hold. Endlessly naive and ultimately fruitless, but… interesting. Hopeful, maybe.”

As Olistene settled back into her book Serine moved to a desk and opened a score. It had been a while since he had been able to work on any music. In the back of his mind he made a note to ask about music and instrumentation in Lon-Bay; Serine was endlessly fascinated by what other people listened to for fun. Slowly getting lost in the notes and bars, Serine jerked up as Olistene tapped his shoulder.

“Get prepared for dinner. Nicest clothes a servant could wear. But be appropriate. Wear blues, greens, browns, and greys.”

“Do the colors matter?”

Olistene scowled, waving Serine towards his room. “Yes! The Sae will be dressed in reds, golds, oranges, and black. The Triad will be dressed in white. We have to defer to our hosts, as well as keep in mind our status.”

Serine’s brow furrowed as he blinked up at Olistene. “What will you wear?”

“My robes,” Olistene purred.

“Oh.”

 

Serine had been right on the money about dinner. The three monks had been escorted by a servant to the formal dining room, where the Triad already had been seated. Before the monks had even sat down, a herald had entered to announce the arrival of Simon.

“They certainly like their ceremony,” Serine whispered, not for the first time. He fell silent as the Sae entered though. Olistene was correct about the colors. The Triad looked ethereal in white, but to Serine’s surprise, the three had opted for tailored white suits. The Sae, on the other hand, wore the most elaborate outfit that Serine had ever seen. The young man seemed to be fire incarnate, topped with the crown on Lon Bay-- a golden band ran around the Sae’s head, with a half sun dawning behind him. Three rays of light projected from the sun, light catching on the beveled metal.

“Guests,” Sae Simon said by way of greeting. “Please enjoy dinner.”

The dinner in question was a traditional Lon Bay meal; the monks were served salted fish with a slightly sour paste made from taro, a pork stew that had been curried and served over rice, and sweet potato halves. Bowls of fruits and nuts sat on the long table, with people helping themselves as they desired. Servants flitted to and fro, keeping goblets full and fruit bowls stocked. Conversation stayed light for most of the meal; Patricia seemed as if she could talk for hours about the traditional methods of cooking on Lon Bay.

“Oh Patricia,” Anna laughed, “if you keep that up our guests will think that we cooked this meal in an earth pit with hot stones.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Patricia indignantly defended. “It’s tradition.”

“I didn’t say there was,” Anna said, “but I’ve seen the kitchens. I happen to know that the chef enjoys the use of several industrial grade ovens to keep this palace fed.”

“We should host a traditional feast,” Simon commented from the head of the table. “Cook things the old way, serve some more traditional foods, wear the old styles. Maybe that will placate Lono for a while.” And just like that the tone shifted.

“Sae Simon,” Olistene began, waving off a servant who offered her dessert. “That name keeps popping up. Who is Lono?”

The Sae took a bite of his own dessert, a pudding that smelled of mango and coconut, before answering. “Lono is an active political figure,” Simon said, glancing at Genevene as he took another bite of pudding.

“He is of my generation,” Genevene supplied, stepping in to Simon’s aid. “He is the face and de facto leader of the Traditionalist Party.”

“Why do I keep hearing about him? With the way his name is thrown around, it almost sounds as if you’re fighting with him.”

“He and his party are… dissatisfied with the direction Lon Bay is headed.” Genevene idly stirred her pudding. “They fear over-modernization, losing what makes Lon Bay unique. Sae Simon is working with them, just as his mother did, to ensure that Lon Bay keeps its heritage alive and well.”

“We cannot become another casualty in the disease that is imperialism,” Simon recited in a needlessly deep voice. “Lono and his party aren’t entirely wrong,” the Sae continued, “we are slipping more and more away from traditional and conservative values and practices. The extent to which that is a bad thing… that varies depending who you ask.” The Sae jerked quietly, looking at Anna, who was fixing him with a stare. Saying no more, Simon merely shook his head and continued to eat his dessert.

Olistene pursed her lips and folded her hands. “So Lono and his politics are no threat to Lon Bay?”

“Why does it matter to an outsider? No offense,” Anna quickly added.

“I don’t want to make a deal with a nation on the verge of coup,” Olistene said frankly. “If I make a deal with Sae Simon, resplendent, the Gai King of Lon Bay, then I hope and expect it to be with him that I work.”

“Sae Simon expects a long and fruitful rule,” Genevene said, sitting down her spoon. “We certainly wouldn’t want to wish anything else.”

“To do so would to incur misfortune,” Olistene agreed, lifting her cup towards the king.

Simon glanced up at the monk, eyes dark under a curtain of hair. “Speaking of misfortune, Monk in Yellow, allow me to once again offer my condolences. I know losing two of your order is a near-unspeakable tragedy.”

Olistene accepted the words with a fake smile, though Serine couldn’t determine if the Sae could perceive the expression for what it was. Genevene did, though the elderly woman did nothing. “We will move on,” Olistene shrugged, “as we always do. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you find out? Most people are unaware of the Order’s involvement.”

“Most people aren’t aware that the Monks are at war with the Coventium network.” Sae Simon leaned back, looking between the three Edonians. “Heads of State are afforded a little more transparency than news networks. All the common person needs to know is that there was some sort of dreadful, fatal occurrence that left over a dozen dead in a remote section of the Australian Outback. It isn’t necessary for the majority to know that it was a war skirmish between the Grand Order of Inertial Monks and migrants who happened to belong to Coventium Oceania.”

“They weren’t migrants,” Olistene argued, “they were soldiers.”

“Soldiers who had nothing but the clothes on their backs?”

“Soldiers who didn’t expect to leave the fight,” Olistene said gravely. “They wanted to kill monks. They succeeded.”

Sae Simon nodded, rising from the table. “I will continue to consider your proposal. In the meantime, I think it would behoove you all to see more of Lon Bay. I shall organize expeditions for you. It would be beneficial for you all to get out of the palace from time to time, to get some fresh air.” Then he was gone, flanked by three royal guards.

“You’re herding us,” Olistene accused the moment the doors were shut behind the boy-king.

“Do you expect anything else?” Anna was incredulous. “Really? We have no relationship with your order. You are our guest, and we will treat you as such, but you are not to have free rein all about the palace.”

“Anna,” Genevne chastised. “Monk in Yellow Olistene is justified in her antagonization. But,” the old woman said, turning to Olistene, “Anna holds many kernels of truth too. It is no secret that Lon Bay stands on a turning point. We are at an exciting time in our existence, and it requires attention and dedication from everyone, attention from the Sae most of all. Is is also no secret that Sae Simon is a young king. He is not infallible. He needs to be focused. Your quest, and request, is a noble one; it justifies careful consideration and deliberate thought. We cannot give you that consideration and deliberation on your timetable. You must wait for us. And as our guests, we expect no less. So please, allow us to try to make your time here more enjoyable. Lon Bay is beautiful, our culture rich, and our people welcoming. Please, Olistene, work with us.”

Olistene rose. “Thank you for your frankness, honorable adviser. It is always refreshing,” Olistene swept a glance over Patricia and Anna, “to be told something in a straightforward manner. My servants and I thank you and your chefs for this wonderful meal, and if it pleases you, we will take our pardon for the night.”

“Go,” Genevene beckoned. “Someone will bring tea to your suite in a little while. Thank you for joining us.”

Smiling that same fake smile from earlier, Olistene gestured for Serine and Ophelia to follow her. The three monks exited the dining room, each with thoughts being in their minds like tempests.

 

“We don’t have a time table,” Ophelia pointed out as she sipped her tea. “The Arch Sophisticate didn’t dictate to us a specific period of time in which he wanted this all done. We could stay here for ages and be fine. The rest of our lives, so long as we get the ley line all sorted out.”

“I don’t want to be here the rest of our lives,” Olistene half snarled. “In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a war going on out there!”

“I don’t think we’ve forgotten,” Serine interjected, “but I don’t think it’s hit you how safe we are here. We’re untouchable as guests of the Sae. The war could potentially end without us seeing a day of battle.”

“And that just makes your coward’s heart all happy,” Olistene taunted, adding more sugar to her tea.

“Olistene…”

“You’re right,” she conceded. “That was too far. My apologies, Serine.”

“You’re a tactician,” Serine continued, “but Ophelia and I could be sent out to die. Forgive us if we don’t mind staying in paradise for a little longer.”

“Speaking of, I’m curious to see how they’ll herd us about.” Ophelia stretched, grabbing a map from the side table. “So far we’ve only really seen this corner of Gate City. Do you think they’ll take us all around the city, or even to some of the other islands?”

“I don’t know,” Olistene mused, taking the map from Ophelia, “but at some point I need to go to Gai-Fin.”

“The island of the dead?”

Olistene nodded in confirmation. “It’s the other end of the archipelago. I would like to see how the ley line tracks from one end of the nation to the other.”

“So that’s the game then?” Ophelia looked into her tea, then to Olistene. “Maneuver them as they maneuver us?”

“Always,” Olistene said with a low chuckle. “Always.”


	15. Tweaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A check-in in Eden, and a little glimpse at the Arch Sophisticate and his Secretariat.

Miranda was hollow. That was the best way to describe it. If someone were to knock on her, it would ring empty. There was no joy, no sorrow. There was no point. She existed, she breathed, she took up space. She responded when spoken to. But there was nothing inside.

The Arch Sophisticate should have seen this coming, to be fair. Miranda had been slowly decreasing in productivity ever since he had directed for her to be moved from her cell to her studio. Granted, the studio was just another form of a cell, but it was undoubtedly nicer. Miranda had been set up in one of the fortress’ towers, a circular suite with floor to ceiling windows, a private bath, and a full wardrobe. Not that any of it seemed to matter. Miranda was deathly pale, her skin seemed grimy, and she only appeared to cycle between two outfits.

Matthew kept pace with his Arch Sophisticate, staying exactly three steps behind his master at all times. He was… uncomfortable, with the Miranda situation, to say the least. But Matthew knew that if she stayed, she would rebound. Everyone did. Being called so serve the Order was an ordeal-- a hassle, if he was being frank. When Matthew had been chosen as Secretariat he didn’t eat or sleep for three days, only taking water when he passed out from dehydration. Luckily, Matthew’s experience had informed his Arch Sophisticate. Miranda was well taken care of. She ate, though it wasn’t a lot. She drank, but again, only the minimum. And she worked. And that was all that could be asked of her. But it wasn’t enough any more. And when the intruder had been found… it had been quickly decided that action must be taken. The briefcase in Matthew’s hand demanded that the timetable be accelerated for everyone’s sake. Still, Matthew had his reservations.

“Sir, are you sure that this course of action is wise?”

The Arch Sophisticate didn’t break his stride. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re just going to tell this witch our plans! Our strategy and long term goals?”

“She is an architect of our future,” Ursaril said. “She needs to know what she is building. And keeping the full truth from her has, I think, lead to this decline.”

“I think she is just still shocked,” Matthew countered, “and is merely in the low point of her rebound. Give her more time. Or maybe only tell part of the truth.”

“The full truth,” Ursaril said evenly, and then Matthew knew it was no longer a conversation. The pair stopped and stood before a pair of acolytes who in turn stood before the ornate door that lead to Miranda’s suite. It endlessly amused Matthew, how wide the acolytes’ eyes grew when they saw Ursaril unexpectedly, especially if the Arch Sophisticate was in what Matthew had long since dubbed “business mode.” Equally amusing was how little attention they gave the Secretariat. Matthew was just an accessory to Ursaril’s person.

“Arch Sophisticate,” one acolyte said, bowing deeply. The other hurried to follow suit. “How are you today, your excellence?”

“Well,” Ursaril said. To the acolytes, he sounded regal, powerful. To Matthew, he sounded bored. “I need to speak with Miss Nguyen.”

The acolyte nodded, though his face revealed surprise. “At once, Arch Sophisticate.” No questions. Promising. “Will the Secretariat accompany you?”

“He always does,” Ursaril said. He made it sound like a snub, like he was exasperated with Matthew for doing the job Ursaril had asked him to take. The acolyte smirked, convinced by the Arch Sophisticate’s tone. Matthew ignored the acolyte; he heard Ursaril when no one else did. The door to Miranda’s suite was unlocked, and the two men entered without knocking. Manners, Matthew mused, must have been suspended some time ago.

Sunlight filled the room, giving everything a cheerful glow. Potted plants were scattered around the room, each in various states of withering. Only one seemed to be doing well, Matthew noted, a little succulent sitting by Miranda herself. The witch was seated at the desk in the center of the room, leaning back in her chair. A pencil was lazily gripped between two fingers, tapping against the desk in an irregular beat. Miranda looked blankly at the sheet in front of her, moving her gaze every so often to the standing boards of paper she had constructed when she was first moved into the suite. Now, the standing boards were flooded with layers of paper that not even the Arch Sophisticate could fully discern. And Miranda just sat among them, looking without seeing. Listlessly tapping.

The Arch Sophisticate cleared his throat. “Miss Nguyen?” Miranda turned her head slightly, frowning at the pair.

“I don’t have anything solid,” she complained. “Please don’t ask me for anything. You haven’t even really told me what you want.”

“Miss Nguyen, will you come to the couch? We have a little to discuss.”

The witch looked at her work, then at her pencil. She sat it down, standing up slowly. She grabbed a brush, distractedly pulling it through her hair as she delicately goose-stepped around the stacks of paper strewn on the floor in a seemingly random pattern. She sat down on the plush couch in the corner of the room, pulling her legs up beside her. She looked blankly at the two chairs in front of her, refocusing her gaze only when Ursaril sat and once again cleared his throat.

“What?”

“Miss Nguyen, your productivity has declined.”

Flat eyes met Ursaril’s dark ones. “Yeah.”

“I would like to ask why.”

Miranda made a tiny noise, mouth twitching at the corner. “Because you kidnapped me before I could refill my meds. And when the depression kicks, it kicks.”

“So you are in need of medication?”

Miranda was quiet for a moment, focusing on the couch. “It’s strange,” she began, as if she hadn’t heard the Arch Sophisticate in the first place, “to see how everything gets impacted. Your brain just stops working with you. Ideas don’t come, you have to force them into the open and then drag them to completion. Things stop mattering when the emotion dries up and the apathy sets in. I stop caring so quickly about how I look, about how all those damn plants are doing,” she waved a hand at herself and the room around her, “but I still brush my hair. I brush my hair when I feel like it’s really bad. And then I tell myself that if I can still brush my hair it must not be that bad, I’m still functional. And I keep working. Trying to work. I keep staring at that blank sheet of paper, waiting for my next great insight. Did you know I’m not a phd?”

“A what?”

“She doesn’t hold a doctorate,” Matthew supplied.

Ursaril inclined his head slightly. “What does that have to do with anything? You are the most accomplished person in your field. What does a piece of paper do for you?”

“I’m the most accomplished person in my field because I invented my field,” Miranda said. “I don’t have a doctorate because I am discovering things faster than we can catalogue them and establish a solid realm of study. But before I was kidnapped and made the star of this circus, no one would take my calls. No one cared about what I was discovering because no one wanted to hear from this nobody Vietnamese girl with barely any qualifications. I hated them for that. And now you have me, I’m getting the attention I always wanted for my studies, and I’m miserable. Isn’t it funny?”

“No, I don’t find that amusing at all. Ironic, perhaps.”

“How is your tattoo,” Matthew asked, tactfully cutting off Ursaril before he could be drastically insensitive.

“The one you inked me with to kill my magic? Still working.” Her tone, the most emotive since they had entered, not so subtly suggested that she didn’t want to talk about it, so Matthew let it drop.

Ursaril smoothed his hands across his lap, gave one warning look to Matthew, and forged ahead. “We are here today to talk about why you’re here, Miranda. I feel that the time has come for you to understand the work you are doing.”

“You have me looking into ley lines. That’s my whole thing.”

“Yes,” the Arch Sophisticate conceded, “that is your speciality. It’s why I sought you out. And it is an inevitable fact that you were brought here against your will. But I feel now that it is in both of our best interests that you stay here in the fortress.”

Matthew began to speak before Miranda had a chance to question. “One of the city peacekeepers detained a person yesterday who was acting… unusual. He confessed to being a witch sent by Matriarch Quixival.”

“Sent for me?”

Matthew nodded, withdrawing a short knife from the case he had brought with him. “He was an assassin.”

Miranda’s face grew pale as she stared at the knife. “How do I know you aren’t lying to me?” Her face grew paler as Matthew undid a compartment within the case, bringing out a neat little square of skin, the branding of a witch clearly upon it.

“I invite you to feel it,” Ursaril gestured to the skin, “to verify its freshness. Taken from your would be assassin after he took his own life rather than be detained by us. His corpse is in a holding cell, should you wish to see the body.” Ursaril steepled his fingers and leaned forward, waiting until Miranda made eye contact. His voice was calm, solid, steady. “Quixival knows that we have you. She has assumed that we are asking you to work on our ley line conundrum, and she is right. But you are not safe in the outside world anymore. Neither, perhaps, are any other pioneers in your field, should Quixival decide that it is not worth the risk that the Order acquire any other specialists.”

“You think the Matriarch would try to kill my friends just to keep you from potentially using them?”

“She tried to kill you; murder has never been below the Coventium. And witches are indoctrinated with an overriding fear of the Order, you know this yourself. It was why the assassin killed himself rather than be taken into the Order’s custody. I am not telling you that your colleagues are in immediate danger, but should you have a list of people you would want secured, the Order could make that happen.”

“So they could work for you?”

“It works out for everyone.” Ursaril gave another glance to Matthew, who promptly began to repack the briefcase. “As for your being here. I am prepared to reveal to you my Order’s plans. Quite frankly, we are in desperate need of ley lines. They are uniquely powerful, a tool for us to bring total harmony to the world. We are engulfed in a war, in case you were unaware, and the death toll only rises.”

“And you wish to kill more?”

“No.” Ursaril produced a roll of paper, placing it in his lap. “We are currently in possession of a relic of immense power that can, we believe, reverse recent deaths. It is extraordinary costly; the first time we used the item it permanently drained the life from the soil surrounding the fortress. I have had monks and agriculture specialists working for months to try to reverse the blight. We have had some success in finding alternative sources of power, but nothing would be as sustainable as a ley line. With your research, I aim to undo all casualties from this war. But we must act quickly-- the long we take to find a way to power the relic, the more lives will not be saved.”

“How virtuous of you,” Miranda deadpanned, sitting up slightly. “What’s the catch?”

“We are dedicated to balance, as an Order. Where there is a gift, there has to be a loss.” Ursaril took a breath. “I want to use the ley lines to stop the inheriting of magic.”

Miranda let out a shaky breath, her eyes sparking to life as she processed what he had said. “Is that even possible? That would require… oh. That’s where I come in.”

“Yes. The idea is not as far fetched as it sounds. Groups already exist dedicated to eradicating magic. I would not kill anyone, I would simply find that gene within magi and flip it off. Painless. Efficient. As of now, we rely on the Coventiums to keep witches in line and the Order to fight larger threats to the balance of the world. Yet more and more, the Order has to deal with witches as Coventiums grow lazy and corrupt. Quixival orders hits like a mafioso while the rest of the Covenium America’s Senate worries more about helping themselves than the witch community as a whole. The Coventium Europe’s princess continues to accumulate power after the fallout of an internal disaster that put her mother, the Queen Matriarch Belladonna, in a short coma and plunged the rest of the Coventium into a state of panic and disarray. The Coventium Oceania has completely broken rank with the others after the slaughtering of witches and monks in Australia, and the Coventiums Asia and Africa are completely closed off right now to the politics of their sister organizations. They are lost. There is no sense in any of it, Miranda. Help me.”

“It’s certainly a bold plan,” Miranda said quietly. “What makes you think we can do it? What if there’s no gene, and magic is simply that-- magic?”

“Then we keep moving forward armed with whatever knowledge we gain in the attempt.”

“I…” Miranda lapsed into silence, fingers drumming on her leg. The Arch Sophisticate and Matthew gave her time. “I need a while to consider your offer. In the meantime, I… I think I’ll want to see the body. I need to get my meds. And I may think of a few names.”

“Of course.” Ursaril smiled, standing up and passing the roll of paper to the witch. “Here are various supplementary materials from our vaults and archives that may be of use to you, now that you know of our ambitions.” The Arch Sophisticate frowned, his right hand twitching slightly. “Miss Nguyen, it is very important that you never speak again of this meeting to anyone, and even when speaking to me or my Secretariat, you refer to these plans sparingly. You hold in your hands and your mind the most sensitive information the Grand Order of Inertial Monks possesses.”

Miranda was quiet for a moment, working through what was said. She came to a conclusion-- that was evident in the way her eyebrows bunched and relaxed. Then she frowned. “You don’t trust your own people?”

While externally maintaining pure professionalism, Matthew internally cringed. Ursaril was giving away too much too quickly. Ursaril’s own eyes clouded with something, if only for a moment, before he delicately nodded his head. “I have reason to believe,” the Arch Sophisticate carefully began, “that one of my monks is-- shall we say-- compromised. I am dealing with the situation, but it is important that you keep yourself safe and your secrets safer.” Without further ado, the Arch Sophisticate strode out of the room. Matthew followed, and the two stood in the hall as the heavy door clicked back to locked.

“How do you suppose the witch got into Eden,” Matthew asked quietly as the two returned to the Arch Sophisticate’s office. “We’re one of the most secure cities in the world.”

“I don’t know,” Ursaril admitted, “but I’m sure the answer will present itself.” Matthew made a noise, moving through the office into the back rooms, taking the briefcase into the Arch Sophisticate’s private vault. Out of all the rooms in the fortress, this little one, tucked way into the tallest tower, was by far his favorite. The items here were an eclectic mix of items too valuable or dangerous to be in the main vault and a small group of things important to Ursaril for a variety of reasons.

When he had first become the Secretariat, Matthew had paused at every pedestal every time he had entered the vault, contemplating and examining each and every item. Now he simply blew past the necklace pedestal. The antique maps got a sparing glance, if only because Matthew shared his master’s fondness for them. The silver lyre was ignored, as was, for perhaps the first time, the crucible that floated within a veritable fortress of runes and sigils. Of all the items in the vault, it was the crucible that always intrigued Matthew the most. He knew nothing about it. It seemed to be made of iron, though Matthew was smart enough to know that it probably wasn’t. Whatever the material, the crucible was cut into a hideous lump that resembled nothing more than a potato-- or a crude human heart, Matthew supposed, should the viewer be prone to imaginative interpretations. He had no idea what made the ugly little thing so important that it sat alone in the very back of the vault, suspended in crystal behind layers of wards. Perhaps something was inside-- the thing was lidded, and Matthew had never seen within. In the end, Matthew usually decided that it was better that he didn’t know. Placing the briefcase in a small alcove, the Secretariat hurried back to his master. There was more work to be done, now that things were heating up.


	16. Promenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia gets a girls' day out.

Ophelia was still in the habit of bathing with the palace servants. They were slowly getting more comfortable with her, talking more freely in her presence and sharing tidbits of palace gossip-- with the assistance of a server who spoke some Mandarin as well as Gailin. Perhaps one day the interpreter would be unnecessary, as Ophelia was slowly learning Gailin, but in the meantime she was much appreciated. They all were appreciated, because it was through them and with them Ophelia managed to churn through her thoughts.

Stepping out of the bath, Ophelia quickly dried off and began to make her way back to the suite. Her bare feet were cold against the floor, just like at the temple. No matter how far she went, some things stayed the same. Serine would be lacing his boots in the suite, the same old frown tugging his lips down as he struggled to get the laces as perfectly even as he could. Sweet man, if he could only get his head out of his ass. If only, if only. There was a poem, Ophelia recalled, that started out like that. At least, she thought it was a poem. Maybe she was misremembering.

Opening the door, there Serine was, just as Ophelia expected. He looked up at the sound of the latch, and his face changed for just a moment as he saw Ophelia. It was strange, the way the lines of his face seemed to soften, the way his eyes pulled every so slightly. His mouth parted as if he had something to say to her; Ophelia hoped it would be an assurance but knew it wasn’t. Then the moment was gone. Serine’s gaze fell and his shoulders hunched as he lined up aglets, subtly tugging the string. Olistene sat at a small desk writing a letter, shielding it with her hand when Ophelia came over.

“Keeping secrets?” Teasing Olistene was easy, Ophelia had long since discovered. True to form, Olistene frowned, fingers beating against the paper.

“Not all of us are so fortunate to have remain paired with our partners,” she cooly replied, glancing at Serine. “Victor and I write regularly to stay caught up with one another. It reduces friction.” Again, she glanced at Serine. She allowed her gaze to linger on Ophelia though, and that felt just a little pointed. “Partners should strive to be in harmony.” Ophelia cringed. Definitely pointed.

“I’m working on it,” Ophelia said quietly. It was true. She was coming to think that perhaps she had been a little too… angsty. She had expected too much of Serine and his ability to know her feelings. They were partners, and sometimes friends, but he couldn’t just know things about her. She was too good at hiding away her feelings, keeping everything cool and in control. As for her feelings…

The Grand Order of Inertial Monks was founded, according to common doctrine, by angels. It’s why the lyre was the symbol of the Order. It’s why the Tree stood where it did. It was by the grace and authority of angels that the first Arch Sophisticate received their wisdom and power, that same wisdom and power that flowed down the line to Ursaril. The Order was flawed. Ophelia had never doubted that, because she fundamentally understood that every organization has flaws. She has just, in a moment of doubt, over exaggerated the extent of the Order’s flaws. Ursaril knew best. Ophelia had been... uncomfortable… taking the witch Miranda to Eden. It had felt like a kidnapping. Ursaril wanted Miranda due to her knowledge about ley lines. Because he wanted to move the lines, to make himself master of that natural power. It had felt like a betrayal. Ophelia had always know the Order to be custodians of the world, not the master. But the Arch Sophisticate knew best. The world kept changing. The Monks in Green were dead. Monks hadn’t been killed in combat like that in years. A pair of monks hadn’t been slaughtered like that since the time of the River’s War, since Adaline. The world kept changing, and the Arch Sophisticate knew best. The Order would continue. It must keep its momentum. And Ophelia couldn’t slow it down. She had to give all or nothing, and keep giving. It’s what Ursrail needed, and he knew best. They all had to give all or nothing. All or nothing. All or--

“Ophelia?” Olistene was holding her shoulder, Ophelia realized. “Ophelia, are you alright?”

“I… Yes. Yeah.” Ophelia blinked, massaging her temple. Her head hurt. She hadn’t realized she was spacing.

“Did you hear what I was saying? Advisor Anna has requested your presence for the day.”

Ophelia blinked. “The whole day?”

“Yes, so I recommend you get dressed and stop making her wait. Don’t forget, access to the Triad is key.”

“Yeah, yeah. Um. I’ll go finish getting dressed. Where do I meet her?”

Olistene’s lip quirked. “The palace gate. Hurry along now.”

Throwing on clothes and brushing past Serine, Ophelia made it to the gate in nine minutes flat. Not bad, considering that she was no stranger to taking her time getting ready. Entering the main hall, Ophelia immediately spotted the young advisor. Then Ophelia froze. Anna sat in a wheelchair, finger idly tracing the arm rest as she waited for Ophelia. Anna turned to check her watch and, seeing Ophelia out of the corner of her eye, rolled over to greet her.

“Took you long enough,” Anna said by way of greeting. Looking out from over her glasses, Ophelia saw the amusement in her eyes. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d get here anytime before the next era.”

“Are you hurt?” It was an immediate question, one born from academy training and monk mentality. Ophelia’s eyes picked the advisor apart, looking for any sign of harm.

“No?” Anna looked down at herself before shaking her head and looking back up at Ophelia. “I’m in a wheelchair.”

“Yes,” Ophelia said lamely. That was obvious. Anna shook her head again, and Ophelia felt her stomach sink.

“That’s the first thing,” Anna muttered. “It’s always the first thing. Yes, I’m in a wheelchair. Didn’t you notice I’ve always been sitting or propped up every time you’ve seen me? It’s a staging thing. I also wear glasses.” Anna took them off and waved them in front of Ophelia’s face for emphasis. “No one ever mentions the glasses, it’s always the chair. I have to wear contacts for staging purposes too, when I’m in my official role. So I look good. Cause, you know, I have to look fit for the job.” Anna put back on her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Sorry,” Ophelia said quietly. She was. She hadn’t been trying to be rude, but she had ended up offending Anna anyway. Which wasn’t ideal, considering that the monks needed to be on the Triad’s good side.

“Shit. I am too. I didn’t mean to… well, I kinda meant to go off on you. But I meant for today to be a casual girls’ day out, and I set the mood pretty terribly.”

“Can we apologize and move on with the day?”

Anna nodded. “Let’s. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve had this conversation with a visitor. Before we go, and before you ask the questions at an inopportune time and embarrass yourself: Yes, I’m paralyzed from the waist down. No, it doesn’t really impact my day to day life, because at this point I’m really used to the chair. It happened when I was little, and it involved a riptide and a very pointy rock. Absolutely under no circumstances should you shower me in any sort of misplaced pity. Now let’s go. I want to show you my city.” Anna rapped against the door, and Ophelia could hear the drawbridge being extended as the door slowly opened.

“So, you said today was a girls’ day out?” The ice desperately needed to be broken.

“Yes.”

“Why not Olistene? I’m just a servant.”

“I think you’re a little more than that,” Anna said with a grin. Ophelia’s pulse skyrocketed. She knew that Ophelia was a monk? Did she know about Serine? She probably knew about Serine. Damn. Their cover was blown. They needed-- “You and that man are obviously her advisors, just as I advise Simon. Sae Simon, resplendent,” she quickly corrected. Ophelia didn’t comment on her slip up. It seemed kinder to let it go. Mostly Ophelia was just trying to get her breathing back under control. She was still good.

“Well, we aren’t official advisors,” she said. That was true. “But we occasionally offer Monk in Yellow Olistene our thoughts and opinions.” That was also true. Just as equals, not as servants.

“Genevene and Patricia both told me to be wary of you,” Anna said frankly. The two were entering Gate City, slowly passing by arrays of shops and restaurants as they made their way deeper and deeper into the capital city. “They said that you would probably try to befriend me in an effort to get closer to the Sae. Especially due to his age.”

Ophelia didn’t say anything, but Genevene and Patricia earned some respect in Ophelia’s head. They had thought ahead and thought right. “And?”

“Well.” Anna stopped in front of a street vendor, saying something in Gailin. “I saw a few possible courses of action. We can play their political games and be pitted against each other, trading information about our respective parties on a quid pro quo basis. We could decide not to interact at all.” Anna took two cups of something from the vendor, saying a word of thanks. She offered one cup to Ophelia. “Or, we can be better than the past and those entrenched in the idea that everyone is a threat. We can try out the friend thing. Besides, you seemed like you desperately needed to get out of the palace.” Ophelia slightly smiled, taking the offered cup. “To us,” Anna said cheerfully.

Ophelia took a sip of her drink, making a face at the bitter drink. “What is this?”

“Kava,” Anna laughed. “It’s good, isn’t it? Here in Lon-Bay, we have a mild strain that is good for casual drinking and a bunch of vendors who are more than happy to sell it.”

“Speaking of,” Ophelia said, “don’t you need to pay?” Ophelia glanced back at the vendor, who was doing a remarkable job of pretending not to look at the pair.

“Oh, um. She put it on my… what is the English phrase? Account? She put it on my account.” Anna laughed. “I nearly wish you would hurry up and learn Gailin from those women from the bathing room.”

Ophelia started. “You know about that?”

“There is very little in my palace that I don’t know about,” Anna said. “Eyes and ears, Ophelia. They are everywhere.” Ophelia didn’t say anything. She just swirled the kava in the paper cup. Taking another sip, the drink didn’t seem quite so bitter as it had the first time. “There’s actually a fun story about kava in Lon-Bay,” Anna said. Ophelia suspected that she was providing this story just to fill the sudden silence. It was appreciated.

“Do tell.”

“Originally, back before the first Isolation War, the only strain of kava in Lon-Bay was very potent and used for special events. When a new Sae was crowned, for example, they would drink kava. Religious leaders would be the only ones allowed to make it, and they could only serve it with approval from the Sae, one of the Triad, or an elite member of Lon-Bay confirmed by the Sae. The thing was though, those elites began to get kava for less and less formal reasons. Soon enough, they were having very potent kava for any occasion. This was quite the headache for the Sae for several reasons. One, kava’s effects were numbing the efficiency of those over-indulging. Two, the elite were destroying the sacredness, the special role, of kava. Third, the common people were upset that the sanctity of kava was being ruined. Then they were mad that they didn’t ever get any kava at all due to the limits placed on it. Then they got mad when they remembered that the rules didn’t seem to apply to the rich, only to them. So the Sae had an ineffective elite class, an angry lower class, and a drink that was now a lot of trouble.” Anna took a sip of her own drink. “So the Sae ordered for our kava plants to be selectively bred so that they were weaker and weaker before releasing them into mass markets. Now everyone could have kava. Really, it was encouraged for everyone to have it. And that’s why you can get it so easily all over the city. All over Lon-Bay.”

“That was a clever solution.”

“Saes are wise,” Anna said. “It’s a gift of the gai.”

“The ley line?”

Anna slowly shrugged slowly, as if she was trying to feel out Ophelia’s intention with her shoulders. “Gai is more than the ley line. It’s the energy of the line, but it’s the energy of the island. Of the people. Of the sun to the sea to the living and to the dead. A Sae is powerful because they are the Gai King or the Gai Queen, the ruler of the path that connects everything in a grand cycle. Something your Order would understand, no?”

“One would think.” Anna silently lifted her drink to that, and Ophelia wondered how much she read into it. The two drank in silence as they strolled the city, the sightseeing punctuated with Anna’s brief but detailed anecdotes about the history of Lon-Bay.

“And up ahead is my personal favorite place in all of Lon-Bay, the Sae Lili Memorial Park. Here we commemorate--” Anna fell silent with a strangled noise, rolling to a stop as she took in the park. A demonstration was taking place on the paved stones, the crowd all but obscuring a statue in the center of the park. All Ophelia could see was the top of what appeared to be the Sae’s crown, rendered by the artist in solid gold. The crowd in question was slowly turning, each looking at Anna and Ophelia. The sound of murmurs made Ophelia’s skin crawl.

“Why are they staring at us?”

“It must be because you are so pale,” Anna weakly joked.

Ophelia crossed her arms. “Not at all because of your position?”

“How…?” Anna’s eyes narrowed. “Lono.” Across the plaza, a man had taken the stage. Ophelia rubbed an eye, making sure she was taking all of him in. Lono was built like a mountain. Functional muscle too, though his movements didn’t show it-- Lono moved with an uncanny grace for a man whose muscles could easily enable him to pull small trees from the ground. Lono took an offered microphone, pointed directly at Anna, and said a single word.

“Sae’ha.” His voice was warm, authoritative. It made Ophelia want to crane her head to look at herself, to look wherever Lono pointed. “Sae’ha,” Lono repeated, and the murmurs began to echo him.

“We should leave,” Anna said, backpedaling. “Lono isn’t known for praising the monarchy in his speeches. Besides, the whole thing will be in Gailin.” A nervous laugh. “You wouldn’t understand a thing he said.”

“Sae’ha,” the crowd began to call. “Sae’ha!” A few people began to push through the crowd towards Anna and Ophelia. Anna and Ophelia began to back away faster.

“What is that they keep calling you?”

“Sae’ha? I’ll spare you the literal translation.” Anna paused, considering as she continued to back away from the crowds. “It’s my title. Advisor to the Sae. It’s, um, rather vulgar when literally translated, so I don’t recommend you ask about it.” Anna hit a railing, and glanced between the available roads and the approaching crowd. “I recommend we get out of here very quickly. Those men look rather stirred up.”

“Agreed.” Ophelia held up her hands, glancing at the handles of Anna’s wheelchair. “May I?”

Anna grimaced. “On this occasion, yes.” Holding on to her armrests, Anna allowed herself to be raced out of the park, back towards the palace. Wheezing, Ophelia slowed to a stop at the foot of the watchtower. Anna called something to the drawbridge operator, and the gates slowly creaked open as the bridge extended. “Well, that was fun.”

“Fun,” Ophelia panted. “I just ran I don’t know how many miles.”

“Oh, several.” Anna arched an eyebrow. “You have incredible stamina.”

“Thank you. It’s one of my signature traits.” Ophelia leaned back, relishing the way her back popped.

“Could I interest you in a cup of tea? I hate that our day got cut short due to Lono’s little rally. I have a bathroom you could freshen up in?”

“I appreciate your offer,” Ophelia said, and really, she did. Anna was nice, far nicer than she had originally expected. “But I have to report back to Monk in Yellow Olistene. She’ll want to know I’m back.”

“Of course, of course.” Anna almost sounded... disappointed? That couldn’t be it. “Do you need anything else?”

Ophelia shrugged. “Just a bath. I imagine the bathing room’s quiet this time of day.”

Was that a muscle feathering in Anna’s jaw? “Yes. I imagine it is. I will take my leave then, Ophelia. Oh, before I forget. The other night, the dinner with the Sae?”

“Yes?” Ophelia racked her brain for something she may have said, something that may have gone unnoticed.

“You looked nice in that outfit. You should wear blue more often, it really suits you.”

“Oh.” Ophelia flushed. She had been mortified when Olistene had told her that she and Serine were to wear blue to the Sae’s dinner. “Well, it honored the Sae.” Indeed, Olistene had described a political color scheme so intense the fate of Lon-Bay seemed to have ridden upon Ophelia and Serine’s wearing blue that night. Anna nodded and waved goodbye, heading off somewhere in the palace. Ophelia watched her until she turned a corner, then Ophelia set off to take a bath and wipe away the sweat that had grimed on during her city-sprint.

Lon-Bay had a rich history of color symbolism and pageantry, all of which began with the Sae. Saes were always dressed in reds and oranges and yellows, and the Triad always wore oranges and blacks. Status was conveyed by the brightness and vibrancy of clothing; servants took darker colors, with the servants of the Sae wearing all black. In addition to complementing the Sae, it kept them unobtrusive during the meal. The guests of the Sae, in addition to following the bright to dark status gradient, were expected to wear cool tones in deference to the warm tones of the monarchy. Therefore, it was expected for Ophelia and Serine to wear some shade of blue to the dinner. It was ironic and felt a touch too on the nose, but neither Ophelia nor Serine had fought it. Olistene had deliberately chosen an outfit that couldn’t be publicly critiqued; she had worn the robes of her office. Ophelia didn’t think it had been wise to antagonize the Sae, Serine had thought Olistene was making a power move. And she had.


	17. Parallels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sae Simon has to run a kingdom somehow.
> 
> (I originally made a mistake and put this in Snapshots, but this is its proper home. Sorry for any confusion!)

Sae Simon was woken up at the same time every day, and every day he reluctantly put his feet on the floor. He shivered-- despite the persistent sunlight, the palace stayed cold. He would check the news on his tablet-- imported-- before taking a shower and brushing his teeth. He didn’t bother running a comb through his hair. It would be wavy, if he grew it out, and he had been told when he was younger that it would be one of the things that would make him attractive as he grew up. Simon didn’t care about his hair. It was just hair.

Breakfast was an assortment of fruit and bread and tea-- all local-- as Simon was briefed by Genevene on his schedule for the day.

“You should really eat more, my sae.” Genevene’s fussing at Simon’s lack of appetite was fairly routine too, though there was little bite behind it.

“I’ll be fine until lunch,” was his typical response. Simon liked lunch.

Simon didn’t like meeting with Lono, but that was his primary objective today. And it was dumb. Today was just so dumb, and it had been dragging on for hours. They seemed to be near the end of it today.

“So we’re in agreement?” Lono looked at the young king over steepled fingers, his mouth a tight line.

“I suppose.” Simon ignored the look Patricia gave from behind Lono. Language mattered, he reminded himself. “Yes,” Simon clarified, “we are in agreement. I will, by royal decree, stop any attempts to establish any Starbucks franchises.” It was dumb. About a year ago, a Starbucks representative had reached out about opening a branch in Gate City. Simon had been hesitant, Lono had been rabidly against it. The people were mixed, with some seeing it as a natural thing, and others as a sign of the end. Cue negotiations over a non-issue.

“Excellent.” Lono leaned back in his chair. “This then brings us to the new market that you can directly exploit.”

“Moderately overpriced coffee houses?”

“Don’t limit yourself to the Western standard, my sae.”

“I’m not going to use the power of the crown to create and manage a national coffee chain, Lono. The crown manages enough as it is. I fear overreaching.”

“A national chain would inspire loyalty to the country, and if you played your cards right, to the crown.”

“Funny that you want to promote loyalty to the crown,” Simon muttered, knowing that Lono would pretend not to hear. Being king had its perks. “But I worry that this agreement is setting a dangerous precedent. Polls of the people show growing support for the tastes of the outside world.” Sae Simon shrugged. “The people want pumpkin spice.”

Lono shook his head in disgust. “The people want the flavor of Western capitalism. They want to taste the artificial syrup of autumn, but it is the flavor of subtle imperialism.” Simon sighed, rubbing his temple. This was a familiar refrain, but if Simon just gave it a moment Lono would bring himself back down. “Do we not have our own seasonal dishes? Do we not have our own coffee for them? Why do they want Starbucks? Why!”

“I don’t know,” Simon said, letting his hands fall to the table in frustration. “But I know that they want it. And I know that they’re aren’t going to like my prohibiting it. But I’m going to do it to satisfy you.” Patricia was actively shaking her head behind Lono now. “And in return, you’re going to drop your opposition to the import of candles.”

Lono opened his mouth to argue, stopping as Sae Simon raised a finger. Lono bowed his head, looking at the table. “What is it like, Sae Simon, resplendent, to hold in your finger more power than I have freedom in my person?”

“It’s…” Simon searched for the right word. “Unique.” Simon looked at Lono, regarding the much older man. This hadn’t been covered in the meeting practice he and Genevene had done before Lono had come to the palace. “Rise, Lono.”

“Sae Simon, resplendent, importing candles would destroy the livelihood of Lon Bay’s candlemakers, your candlemakers.” For emphasis, Lono gestured to the beautiful candles enclosed in elegant glass lamps that lined the meeting room. “You wish to put them out of business?”

“I wish to make candles affordable, seeing as how there is a sudden push to move away from electronic and fluorescent lighting. I wonder who we should thank for promoting that particular movement?”

“It is traditional,” Lono said quietly, “for the life of Lon Bay to exist in light and shadow. Both in harmony. It is in our religion, in our ways.”

“But LEDs are convenient,” Simon whined, hoping it didn’t sound like a whine. “You’re demanding more than I can give, Lono. You contradict yourself with your demands. And then you go into the streets and denounce the crown to your mobs.”

“Yet you humor me with your presence, my sae.”

“I do.” It was a well known secret that the Sae did not have to tolerate opposition. Their power was divine, ordained by Gai, and if Simon had wanted, Lono could have been locked in the palace dungeon the first time he spoke against the crown and its policies. Simon secretly knew that he could have locked Lono up even before that, on a whim. “It’s best we don’t forget our positions when making demands, Lono.”

“Of course, my sae.”

“So, in return for my blockading the franchisement, we will begin to import more candles. I will begin a program to support local candlemakers. And you will begin to curtail your demonstrations against me and my court.”

Lono’s face soured, but he said nothing. He still felt that the franchise was a bigger win. “As you say, my sae.”

“I heard that you were in a square recently, calling ‘Sae’ha’ to the sky and sea.”

“The Sae’ha is an adult woman, she can take care of herself. And acknowledge her position.”

“It was a cheap shot.” Simon crossed his arms. “You will apologize to her. And refrain from encouraging mob mentality around her or any of my court. A guest of the crown was with her, Lono.”

Lono shifted in his seat. “You have guests, my sae? I was unaware.”

“At the time of your stunt, Anna was with an ambassador from the Crystal City.” Simon didn’t see Patricia’s face until after the words were out of his mouth. His small flame of pride was immediately extinguished.

“The Crystal City of Eden?”

Simon shrugged, trying to back down from his moment of braggadocio. “My guests are not your concern, Lono. Leave my people be.”

“Of course, Sae Simon, resplendent.”

“Then we’re done.” That was it, the too-easy dismissal. The sixteen year old dismissing a man easily three times his age, and it was unquestioned.

Simon remained at the table as Lono left, silently studying his hands. Patricia took the seats opposite him, sending a message to Genevene and Anna that the meeting was over.

“Anna will be upset with you,” Patricia said mildly.

Simon sighed. “Anna’s always upset with me. What’s one more log on the fire?”

“She’s not always angry at you.” Patricia placed her hand on Simon’s. “You know she doesn’t resent you. She loves you, Lon-Bay. We all do.”

“You don’t have to be formal here. It’s just me.”

Patricia said nothing, instead looking to the crown on Simon’s head. “Is that an order, Lon-Bay?” It was Simon’s turn to say nothing.

 

When Genevene and Anna entered, each carrying trays for lunch, they found Patricia and Simon sitting across from each other; Patricia studied the crown on the table while Simon studied his hands.

“How was the meeting?” Genevene offered Patricia her food before sitting next to her. Anna did the same, rolling beside Simon and placing his tray in front of him.

“It went well,” Patricia said, glancing at Simon’s eyes. They didn’t rise to meet her. “Lono is going to back off his attacks on the crown.”

“Good,” Anna said, munching into an asian pear. Those had been imported from Korea. “He needs to be taken down a peg, or muted, or something.”

“I asked him to apologize to you,” Simon said, listlessly stirring his soup. With Anna, direct was best. “Don’t be angry with me.”

Anna crossed her arms, looking angry regardless. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“It mattered to me.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing to acknowledge that you were wronged?”

“It was all embarrassing! It was embarrassing because I was with Ophelia. It was embarrassing because he named me as Sae’ha. And now he’s going to apologize for doing what he does? For putting us on the defensive? It’s embarrassing to all of us, Simon, because it looks like you’ve ordered him to apologize to the crown in some self-satisfying pat on the back.”

“I care that he did that to you, Anna.”

“We can deal with this later,” Genevene offered, sitting down her spoon. It made the smallest noise as it hit the bowl, and it was a call to attention. Genebene only made noise when she wanted to. “The franchisement?”

“I’m blocking Starbucks, in return for his reduced demonstrations and candle importing.”

“And what to do we think of the precedent this sets?”

“By and large, we don’t believe that international fast food chains have a home in Lon Bay.” Simon said it as if he was reading from a script. “This will be our guiding doctrine as we continue to protect and cherish our culinary heritage. That said, as we move forward, we will be mindful in considering future appeals to our law.”

“There goes my dreams of sipping a PSL and watching the leaves change,” Anna mused, poking something with a fork. “Or complaining about how Starbucks hates Christmas.”

“We don’t even celebrate Christmas,” Simon said absently, letting the other comment slide. 

“Don’t we? We certainly import a lot of fir and spruce come December.” Simon also didn’t respond to that.

“How do you plan on supporting local candle makers?”

“We’ll reduce taxes on wax, oils, and animal fats,” Simon said, making a note on his tablet. “We should promote beekeeping, for the beeswax and the environment as a whole. And the palace will exclusively use handcrafted local candles for the Night of Suns.” Simon side-eyed Anna. “Our official winter holiday. Besides, it’s winter. People’ll want to keep warm. Candles are cozy, just look at the Danish and all their hygge.”

Patricia sighed a long suffering sigh. “Let’s not invite more troubles.”

Genevene took another bite of soup. “And once we’re past the winter?”

Simon shrugged helplessly. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe the winter market will be so big they can take a summer hit. Or we can find other ways to employ them?”

“Or we lean into Lono’s move away from artificial light,” Patricia said.

Simon frowned, but he didn’t dismiss her. “Or that.”

“We need to deal with the monk,” Anna said abruptly. “We can’t just keep the Edonians here in the palace indefinitely while we pretend to consider their request.”

Genevene sat her spoon down again, silently this time. “Have we reached a conclusion?”

“There’s only one real solution, isn’t there?” Patricia looked around, curious as to whether or not the solution was as obvious to everyone else as it was to her. “They’re not going to take no for an answer. We’ll give them a tiny little lab on a barrier island, I recommend one just in sight of royal guard watchtower, and we leave them more or less on their own. They can study the Transpangenic Trawinski Vein, and we can all get back to dealing with more important concerns.”

“I just…” Simon trailed off, idly tracing a finger along the top of his crown. “I’m uneasy about them staying in my country. I don’t like it, and I’m not sure my mother would have let them stay.”

“Your mother is not the sae upon the throne,” Patricia said gently, looking to Genevene. Genevene was studying Anna. “What matters now, Sae Simon, resplendent, is how you feel. You are Lon-Bay’s guide and protector. How do you feel you can best protect us?”

Simon stood, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He delicately picked up his crown, examining the detailing before placing it upon his head. “I need to speak with the monk.”

Simon himself went to the monk’s suite, and even knocked on the door before entering. The Monk in Yellow was not there. There was just her servant, the man, sitting on a chair with a dense notebook of music notes.

“Sae Simon,” the man said, rising and bowing.

“Resplendent,” muttered Patricia over Simon’s shoulder. She and Genevene had accompanied Simon; Anna had claimed she couldn’t go to the suite, something about awkwardness and encounters.

Simon didn’t waste any time beating around the bush. “Where is Monk in Yellow Olistene?”

The servant blinked. “You didn’t summon her? She left not too long ago, after some servant came for her.”

It was Simon’s turn to blink. “She’s gone?”

The man crossed his arms. “We aren’t confined to the palace.”

“No, of course not.” Simon glanced over his shoulder to Genevene and Patricia. “Would your companion, the other servant, know where she is?”

“Ophelia? Probably not. She went to find a bookstore earlier today, so I doubt she would have seen Olistene. Er, the Monk in Yellow.”

Simon bit his tongue. He wanted to talk to Olistene sooner rather than later. “I would like the Monk in Yellow to join me for dinner. I trust you to pass along my invitation.”

“Of course, Sae Simon, resplendent.” The man bowed, and Simon could nearly feel Patricia's tiny nod of approval. “Before you go though, I have a question.” The servant straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I hope I do not offend you with a request, as you have been so accommodating. Is there a piano in the palace that I may have access to? I’m working on a composition right now, but I need to hear it to keep making progress.”

“We can outfit you with an instrument,” Simon said after a moment of consideration. It was harmless. And Simon tended to have a soft spot for music. “Does the piece have a name?”

“Ah.” The man blushed, definitely sheepish. “Willows and Riverdeep.” Simon nodded, not understanding the servant’s embarrassment. That sounded lovely. Without another word Simon turned and left, leaving the Edonian standing in the doorway of the suite.

“I’ll see if the guards know where the Monk in Yellow went,” Patricia said, splitting from the group.

“You have a meeting with a regional governor,” Genevene said, a hand on Simon’s shoulder. His body had unconsciously turned to follow Patricia. Simon gritted his teeth. How could he have forgotten.

The day dragged on, and nothing truly improved Simon’s mood. Come dinner time, Sae Simon sat with his triad at the head of the table, waiting for the Monk in Yellow and her entourage to join them. The male servant, the one who had asked about the instrument, was half an hour late, and he came alone.

“The Monk in Yellow is still not back.” The servant didn’t sit, nor did he waste words. He stood at the end of the table with his head bowed, not willing to make eye contact with the Sae.

“She’s missing?” Simon turned to Genevene, switching to Gailin. “Is he lying, do you think?”

“No,” Genevene replied in the same tongue, “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“Should we be worried that the Monk in Yellow Olistene, ambassador of Eden, is missing from my palace?”

“I’m not sure there should be any cause for alarm.” Genevene steepled her fingers. “Yet. She is rude, but that is not something to get the palace worried about..”

Simon turned back to the servant, switching languages again to address him directly. “Are you worried about her absence?”

“Embarrassed,” said Serine, still not making eye contact. “But not worried. Yet.” Simon nodded, and Serine excused himself. With his advisers and his thoughts, Simon ate alone.


End file.
